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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28186518">Bond and Free</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarewithnoi/pseuds/clarewithnoi'>clarewithnoi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adventure, Angst, Background Wolfstar, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, First War with Voldemort, Friendship, Hogwarts, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Marauders, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Pining, Rating May Change, Romance, Slow Burn, TW Poison, author is terrified but also excited to write a long story, background Alice/Frank, background dorcas/mary, blackinnon fwb, first wizarding war, for a while, gratuitous usage of 70s rock music, jily, my take on marauders era, please validate her she is fragile, tw blood, tw people getting punched in the face, tw violence, wolfstar, wolfstar and dorcas/Mary DO happen but I want this to be in the Jily tag so!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:35:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>78,133</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28186518</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarewithnoi/pseuds/clarewithnoi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1977, and a group of Gryffindors are learning that the final two years of Hogwarts are punctuated by battles – big and small, mental and physical, devastating and triumphant.  </p><p>It is fortunate, then, that they have grown up warriors.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>MARAUDERS ERA: 6th/7th year. Canon compliant. Primarily JILY - but other pairings make significant appearances.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Marauders &amp; Lily Evans Potter, Marauders &amp; Marauders, Regulus Black &amp; Sirius Black</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>127</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>132</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>james and lily</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Reckoning and the Recompense</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Here we are!</p><p>First off: I want to thank all of my Tumblr followers and my readers here for giving me the confidence to even put this out into the universe.  I sit in such awe of the Marauders Era writers who've completed long works like this, and I am so giddy to hopefully join the ranks.</p><p>Second: if you want to really set the tone for some of the scenes, I'd recommend putting on the music mentioned - whatever song is in the story is what I was listening to while writing, and it really helped me visualize the scene.  Not mandatory, but just a fun little bonus!</p><p>Third: I want to make sure it is said and known that I do not endorse, believe in, agree with, or tolerate the type of comments that JK Rowling has made, and the views she has propagated since the publishing of Harry Potter.  I write fan works for Harry Potter because it was, and is, my comfort content in trying times.  In my mind, it exists independently of her - but that cannot undo the damage done and the harm bestowed upon so many people.  So if it's still unclear: TRANS RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS.  TRANS MEN ARE MEN; TRANS WOMEN ARE WOMEN. Your gender identity is your own, and no one, no matter the size of their platform, can ever take that away from you. </p><p>With that, off we go...</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Love has earth to which she clings</em>
</p><p>
  <em>With hills and circling arms about—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Wall within wall to shut fear out.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But Thought has need of no such things,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For Thought has a pair of dauntless wings.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>On snow and sand and turf, I see</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Where Love has left a printed trace</em>
</p><p>
  <em>With straining in the world’s embrace.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And such is Love and glad to be.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But Thought has shaken his ankles free.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Thought cleaves the interstellar gloom</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And sits in Sirius’ disc all night,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Till day makes him retrace his flight,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>With smell of burning on every plume,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Back past the sun to an earthly room.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>His gains in heaven are what they are.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yet some say Love by being thrall</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And simply staying possesses all</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In several beauty that Thought fares far</em>
</p><p>
  <em>To find fused in another star.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Robert Frost, <em>Bond and Free</em></p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span class="u">June 1976: The Repercussions</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“You’re just as bad as he is!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’d rather go out with the giant squid!”</em>
</p><p>James Potter jogs breathlessly—although from exertion or emotion he cannot be entirely sure—toward the rapidly shrinking figure of Lily Evans, whose shoulders are hunched forward and whose every visible muscle screams of unmistakable tension.  A dark cloud of grief trails behind her like the perverse facsimile of a shadow, and for a moment, he’s almost afraid to approach her; he knows her temper better than most, having been on the receiving end of it for the better part of the past three years. </p><p>Huffing at the expenditure of energy apparently involved in chasing a scorned teenaged girl, James perseveres, though only after calculating that the impending conversation is necessary enough to warrant the risks of her violence against his person.  He <em>cannot </em>let the day end like this.</p><p>Each of his footfalls is laden with the weight of his clunky uniform shoes, and they register heavily on the solid earth behind her; she doesn’t seem to notice.</p><p>James certainly cannot blame Lily for speeding away from the scene so quickly, for she has just lost her friend in a disgusting display of blood prejudice, and he thinks that if Sirius or Remus or even Peter were to betray <em>him </em>in such a way, he’d be running away in anger as well.  </p><p>With a shake of his head, he perishes the thought quickly.  He’s disgusted with himself for comparing any of his mates to <em>Snivellus</em>, to that unending obsession the Slytherin boy mistakes for <em>friendship </em>with Lily Evans.  </p><p>The billowing of her cloak looks like it’s about to swallow her as she moves forward, all surging black fabric that whips this way and that with the changing winds.  James thinks it’s very apt that she’d be the only person still wearing it about after the end of exams. </p><p>They’re just about to the entrance of the castle now.  For some reason, the thought panics him.</p><p>He makes to call out her name, to alert her to his presence before he’s upon her completely, but his vocal cords seem to have tightened up altogether.  She’s only a few feet away from him at this point—and he’s gaining fast. </p><p>He can hear her breaths leaving her body in staccato puffs, like the air itself is reluctant to leave her lungs, like it wants to burrow inside her and comfort her until she makes it back to Gryffindor tower. His own breath feels stunted and laborious as he jogs forward; maybe it’s in league with hers, he thinks, like all of the air surrounding them has decided to impede him before he can say something else to upset her.</p><p>The cut on his cheek is still leaking blood; it throbs dully.  James ignores it until he’s forced to wipe blood from the collar of his shirt.</p><p>Lily <em>still </em>seems not to notice him; he can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.  Her hair flows behind her like an angry tide of crimson, and he doesn’t know how he’s missed how much it’s grown, how the ends of it lick at her shoulder blades as she trudges forward.  The hues of it change as they hit the sun, rippling like flickering flames in the daylight of the summer afternoon.</p><p>
  <em>“Lily—"</em>
</p><p>As if by its own volition, and certainly before he knows what he’s doing, his hand is grabbing ahold of her wrist and he’s left nearly stumbling right into her back as she freezes.</p><p>Lily turns to survey him slowly, <em>too slowly</em>, like a scared animal hoping not to alert a predator, and the way her eyes are shining with moisture turns everything he’s eaten that day into hunks of lead in his stomach.  She watches for a brief moment with a guarded expression as he opens his mouth; only to close it again with no success at speech.</p><p>By the time James has heaved enough steadying breaths to really focus on her face, he sees that tears have dried mournful pathways down her cheeks.  They form haunting trails that send newly acquired oxygen to a stuttering halt in his chest.  He’s never seen her cry before; even the sight of the aftermath painted across her features sends a foreign, shooting pain across his body like an electric shock. </p><p>He is Pavlov’s dog, cowering and skittish at the sight of her distress, witnessing his punishment play out in the pain written across her face, as if to say, <em>you did this, now reckon with it</em>.</p><p>James wants to fix this.  He <em>needs </em>to fix this.  He knows it was a prick move, asking her out like that with tensions running high and whatnot, but he never meant for all of<em>this</em>to happen as a result.  He can <em>fix it</em>, though, he’s sure of it.</p><p>“Evans, I—” He begins to plead his case, desperate, but she cuts him off entirely. Her voice is wobbling and he’s never hated himself before this moment but, <em>oh</em>, he does now.  He shuts his mouth to give her his full attention.</p><p>“I just don’t understand it,” she whispers, “for the life of me, James.  I don’t understand how you are so utterly loved, and you want for nothing, but you can still find it within yourself to be so horrendously cruel.”</p><p>So, this is it, then.  This is the other shoe that has been waiting to drop.  Her final few words run laps behind his eyelids, one <em>horrendously cruel </em>after another like planets in a nauseating little solar system.</p><p><em>You’re wrong, </em>he wants to shout, <em>you’re wrong—he deserves it. </em></p><p>
  <em>He deserves it for what he’s done, what he wants to do; I’m not cruel, stop talking, please, you’re wrong, I’ll tell you, I’ll make you understand, please, don’t hate me, please— </em>
</p><p>She continues, and he’s not entirely sure that his body remembers how to inhale, because the process feels alien and painful.  “Snape has <em>nothing</em>.  He has no family that take care of him, he has no wealth to speak of or real, true friends in the castle except—” Lily hiccups a breath but plows forward, undeterred, “—well, he’s got no friends at all except for those Slytherin bastards, who’re so bloody <em>awful</em>, but at least they make him feel like he has a <em>home</em>, because sometimes people don’t have those, Potter, however foreign that concept may be to you, and you have <em>everything</em>, and you’re still so—you’re so—”</p><p>Unable to continue, she takes a shuddering pause, and James can almost see the sob that fights its way up her throat.  It leaves her like a broken gasp; desolate and heartbreaking, devoid of any air at all. </p><p>He wants to rub her back and let her cry until she’s better—he wants to never see her cry again.</p><p>Lily tears her arm away from James without finishing her thought—<em>you’re so—you’re so—</em>and deigns him one last devastated glare before she turns on her heel and stalks back toward the castle.  He looks on helplessly as she flinches every time her shoes make contact with the stone floors, as if one step too loud will send the entire building caving in on top of her.  He guesses that she thinks it might.</p><p>She doesn’t look back once; she doesn’t see him standing stock-still and unable to move, frozen by her words, until his friends catch up to ask if he’s alright. </p><p>It’s the first time she’s ever called him <em>James</em>.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Lily Evans thinks fleetingly that the end of fifth year is the end of her innocence. </p><p>It is where her worlds collapse in on themselves, muggle and wizard alike, and the only thing she can do is stand and watch the rubble pile up, a helpless bystander to her own downfall.  She cannot <em>speak</em>, she cannot <em>move, </em>and all she seems to be able to do is bloody <em>cry</em>—alone, to her friends, even to McGonagall if the stars align in such a way. </p><p>She wants to cry as she walks away from James Potter; she can feel it.  The sorrow bubbling up inside her is brutal, she can taste the bitterness like acid on her tongue, but she fights it back down with a righteous fury.  Crying will be of no use to her anymore.</p><p>Another step forward.  One foot in front of the other. </p><p>Suddenly, it’s the end of term, and she’s boarding the train back to London and hugging her friends goodbye, and she’s taking more care than she ever has to make it to her parents without being seen by anyone.</p><p>Her mum gives her a hug; her dad tells her how proud of her they are.  The world is still tilted off-kilter from its axes, but she no longer feels like she’s going to be thrown off.</p><p>Lily Evans thinks that the end of fifth year is the end of her innocence, yes, but it is not the end of <em>her</em>.  If the world chooses to crumble around her, so be it. She’ll climb out from under the ruins and force her way into the sun, and she’ll plant her flag in the shattered remnants of the earth.  She will find her allies, she will face her enemies, and she will never allow herself to be made a fool of again.</p><p>There are multiple things that Lily Evans wants the world to know about her: she is a muggle-born.  She is a prefect.  She is a model student and a leader in her House. </p><p>Lily Evans is all of these things, loudly and without reservation, but there is one thing that she has gone far too long without ever showing the world:</p><p>Lily Evans is a warrior.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">February 1977: Present Day</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The things that usually occupy James Potter’s mind whilst he plays a Quidditch match are (in no particular order): the feeling of the broom under his hands, the liberation of watching the ground disappear beneath his feat as he ascends toward the goalposts, and the unyielding desire to trounce whichever team Gryffindor happens to be playing.</p><p>The things that <em>currently </em>occupy James Potter’s mind whilst he plays a Quidditch match are (in no particular order): the fact that Lily Evans has not looked at him so much as one measly time since the match began, and the nagging idea that he desperately wants her to. </p><p>He’s looked at <em>her </em>at least six times now by the most conservative of estimates.  Twice at the beginning of the match to confirm that she isn't a figment of his imagination, one time to assess how confusingly well her red Gryffindor jumper complements her hair, twice because he heard her laugh from across the pitch and was obviously compelled to watch the way the movement would light up her face, and, most recently, once out of sheer frustration that he has not yet been able to catch her eye.</p><p>“Pathetic, Potter,” he mutters, huffing a breath from the corner of his mouth to blow a bit of hair from his eye, “you’re just <em>pathetic.</em>”</p><p>James feels himself pull his broom into a drastic left turn, bringing him parallel to the center line of the field and cutting a rather curious horizontal path through the middle of the swarm of players.  He hears Marlene McKinnon shout his name in confusion and is embarrassed at the jolt he gets at the possibility that Marlene’s attention to him might actually bring <em>her </em>attention to him as well…</p><p>The sound of Sirius whooping and hollering somewhere off to his right pierces the veil of his awareness.  It <em>should </em>send his conscious mind back where it belongs, but a sneaky glimpse toward the Gryffindor stands hurls him into his previous machinations.</p><p>He hears commentary ring out across the pitch: “Potter seems to be performing some sort of—er, some sort of… <em>complex evasion tactic! </em>Yes, that must be it. He’s not exactly going <em>toward </em>the Slytherin goalposts, folks, but he’s not exactly going <em>away </em>from them, either…”</p><p>He can see her in his peripheral vision, all red-cheeked and adorable, shouting and smiling with her mates as the match progresses, but her eyes are only for her friend Marlene as they twinkle with excitement.  Her hair is in two long plaits under a knit Gryffindor cap; from his current position in the air, he can just barely make out a few stray strands that tickle the side of her face with the breeze, causing her nose to scrunch up at the sensation. </p><p>A rather desperate wish accosts him as he tucks around the Slytherin seeker (who looks rather desperate himself at the moment). </p><p>James wants to brush the offending hair away with his fingers, to tell Lily how pretty she looks when the midday sun hits her face, but he <em>can’t </em>and he <em>knows </em>that, and no amount of agonizing can change it. They’ve managed to coexist for the past five months, which is more than he could ever ask for, really, but at the same time, selfishly, it’s not nearly enough—</p><p>It’s a shout and a bludger aimed at his head that break this particular train of thought.</p><p>
  <em>“JAMES! LOOK OUT FOR THE BLUDGER, YOU IDIOT!”</em>
</p><p><em>Right.  </em>He thinks.  <em>Bludger.  The match.</em></p><p>James dodges the incoming ball at the last second, naturally, as if the entire maneuver had been planned to showcase the flourishing tricks he’s mastered on his esteemed Nimbus 1500—he isn’t the best Gryffindor chaser in recent history for nothing, after all.  But it takes him a moment to regain his line of thinking as he whizzes by the Slytherin beaters, hearing the swear words they throw at him dissipate into the passing winds as he intercepts the rogue quaffle they’ve so carelessly let hurtle between them.  His throwing arm is poised, and his muscles seize in anticipation. </p><p>James Potter is hard lines and sharp angles as he flies—the Slytherin keeper hasn’t a cool shot in Hell of keeping him at bay.</p><p>“And <em>what </em>a move by the Gryffindor chaser!” Once again, the commentator’s cry blooms over the cacophony of shouting across the stadium.  James thinks he’s a third year Ravenclaw. “I’ll say, folks, it all looked a bit dodgy there for a moment—rogue barrel-roll and whatnot—but he makes the shot to put Gryffindor in the lead by sixty points!”</p><p>The Gryffindor stands erupt.  </p><p>James barely notices.</p><p>
  <em>Sixty points.  Good, but not enough.</em>
</p><p>He takes a steadying breath in the few moments of roaring celebration after his goal, heart pumping and face flushed from exertion.  The Slytherin players form and then quickly disband from a furious huddle, and at present they look meaner than ever, so it’s downright criminal, really, that his mind has apparently decided to pull a random and decidedly inopportune inventory of his relationship with Lily Evans when he should be calling Dragon One.</p><p>(Dragon One is an offensive maneuver that Sirius came up with and therefore had ultimate naming power over, as James would have called it something much more reasonable like The Swoopy One.)</p><p>It’s the third-to-last Gryffindor match of the year. James Potter is on-track to be the youngest captain ever to win the Quidditch cup—if he can just bloody <em>focus </em><em>on the </em><em>match </em>instead of allowing his traitorous brain to wander. </p><p>He’s been far too distracted for the latter portion of the game—a shameful confession by the sixth-year captain, and even more so when the score leaves so much to be desired.  Gryffindor is winning, yes; but not by nearly as much as would render James comfortable enough to slack off on his goal-scoring duties, and especially so when Slytherin is their opponent and its players seem not to care so much about maintaining “fair, honest play.” </p><p>He attempts to shake himself out and clear his head.  This is all really the fault of nothing more than his own mental deficiencies.</p><p><em>Hippogriff shit, </em>he thinks.</p><p>…This is all really the fault of his own mental deficiencies <em>and</em>the petite redhead standing approximately four people from the left end of the third row of the Gryffindor stands. </p><p>He reasons as he makes his way back toward the center of the field that it really <em>isn’t </em>his fault Lily’s presence is so unnerving to him at this particular moment.  She’s a sporadic presence at Quidditch matches, an avid fan by her own admission but often too preoccupied with one extracurricular activity or another to make it down to the pitch, so the happy sight of her donning red and gold and shrieking in delight as Gryffindor takes the lead is not familiar enough yet for this sorry sod of a captain to be used to. </p><p>If he saw her like this <em>regularly</em>, of course, he’d have enough practice ignoring the way her eyes sparkle when she laughs to redirect his focus to where it ought to be – for example: the desperately needed offensive play.</p><p>“DRAGON ONE!” He bellows.  The heads of his teammates whip toward him in and nod in near-perfect unison. </p><p>Almost immediately, Marlene, his other chaser, and Enora Hornsby, his seeker, stagger at elevating heights behind him, leaving room for the beaters to prepare for their impending onslaught.  Frank Longbottom sits tall and proud in front of the tallest Gryffindor goal.</p><p>A surge of pride swells in James’s chest.  His team is a well-oiled machine. </p><p>Sirius takes his designated place across the pitch, and he’s grinning fiendishly as he hollers: “BEATERS AT THE READY!”</p><p><em>Your job is to hit things, Padfoot, </em>James thinks with a grin, <em>not like you need much preparation to do that.</em></p><p>Sirius Black’s preferred method of stress relief is, often, hitting things—of this, James is painfully aware.  It’s why he makes such a good mate to have around should any practical jokes go particularly awry, of course, but it’s also why he’s wont to wake up mottled with bruises and scrapes after a night of Black family drama—he is loud, gregarious, and unafraid of pain.  James thinks that sometimes he welcomes pain, in fact; if not to prove to himself that the Black family blood runs just as red as the rest of the world.</p><p>Sirius hits things if they bother him, or if they offend him, or even, sometimes, if they disappoint him.  He thinks that fists are a solution to the worlds’ problems, and James is sure that this is one of his more subtle acts of rebellion—he was never supposed to fight back, the heir to the Noble House of Black. He was never supposed to have bruises that showed. </p><p>The boy’s loud laugh rings out across the pitch—James can see the delight shining across his face, clearly pleased to be using his slightly ridiculous play.</p><p>James’s final thought before he throws himself into the necessary Dragon One preparation is of a conversation he had with Sirius on the eve of the tryouts in the Autumn of second year.  Sirius had been a nervous wreck, going back and forth about trying out, panicking that if he made the team, he’d have to face off against his cousin Narcissa, who was Slytherin’s seeker in her seventh year.  James sat him down in the dormitory the night before with a piercing stare.  <em>Don’t let them have Quidditch, mate, </em>he said, <em>they can have Slytherin, and they can have your bloodline, but they’ve got nothing to do with Quidditch.</em></p><p>(Quite right, too.  They could <em>absolutely </em>not have Quidditch.  Quidditch is a Marauder specialty and would be so until there are no Marauders left at Hogwarts, at which point the next generation will certainly be fit to take over and to—well, to <em>maraud.</em>)</p><p>And so James watches as his best friend—with a terrifying sort of glee—shakes out his shoulders and throws a foolhardy glance at his fellow beater, a seventh year named Colin who simply seems very happy to be swatting at things with a large stick, before nodding twice at James in signal.  The two begin to bob and weave around each other, bats swinging as they make their way toward their Slytherin counterparts. </p><p>Dragon One is a risky move, James knows.  Advancing his defensive line with such a small scoring difference would have sent the previous Gryffindor captains into premature graves, but James Potter didn’t become captain by playing it safe, and if there’s any team that can pull off such a maneuver, it’s this one.</p><p>The first step: steal the quaffle from the slimy grip of Slytherin, and then secure at least one of the bludgers.  Not terribly difficult, for what the other team possesses in brutishness, they lack in strategic finesse—and finesse is James Potter’s second language.  The three balls are whizzing about the stadium, the latter two with their ominous, beastly sort of auras, the former passed between the Slytherin chasers after being granted to them in the wake of Gryffindor’s goal.</p><p>A quick hand-wave to Sirius sends him streaking toward one of the bludgers excitedly, bat gripped lazily as if an extension of his arm about which he need not worry.  It takes all of about ten seconds for him to secure it in his possession; with a swing of his bat, he sends it screaming toward Colin as he himself flies forward to be level with him, and Colin passes it back immediately. The two begin swatting the bludger back-and-forth at such a velocity that it no longer appears to be a ball so much as an impenetrable wall between them. </p><p>
  <em>Perfect.</em>
</p><p>A three-finger salute from James’s left hand sends Enora back to her pursuit of the snitch, now with the majority of the Slytherin team looking at Sirius’s and Colin’s display.  James takes this opportunity to whistle Marlene forward toward the other team’s chasers, just as planned.</p><p>(James is the better chaser in terms of his technical flying ability and aim, that is for certain, but Marlene is lighter and faster—both notably necessary attributes when one is trying to steal a quaffle right out from under the noses of two boorish-looking Slytherin fifth years.)</p><p>She weaves between the two of them like she’s melted into the breeze; the boys’ heads swivel as they try to locate her with the ongoing seconds, but she’s performing maneuvers that are far too complex for them to track while also maintaining possession of the quaffle.</p><p>Which is, in theory, exactly why she’s doing it.</p><p>It nearly appears as a slight-of-hand trick, the way that Marlene manages to slip the quaffle into her awaiting arm.  It’s one of those blink-and-you-miss-it moments of Quidditch; the ones that James has always been so adept at creating, the ones that he hopes one day will secure him a place on the England national team.   </p><p>Quidditch had been Sirius’s idea of diffusing tension on that fateful day in June of last year, after he discovered James sulking in a small courtyard after Lily’s dressing down.  He took one look at his best friend’s downtrodden expression and said, “Alright, then.  Down to the pitch?” and before James knew it, the two of them were whizzing about Hogwarts stadium, taking out all manner of frustrations on the bludger Sirius had stolen from the equipment lock-up.</p><p>He remembers Lily’s words to him that day as one of the <em>I’m Not Mad, I’m Disappointed </em>speeches he’d heard tell from people with parents more inclined to scold than his own.  James had always been relatively sure that they wouldn’t work on him—he was too self-assured, too much the <em>sticks and stones may break my bones </em>type—but one look into the defeat that shone so brightly in those emerald eyes, and he couldn’t help but conclude that he was grossly and horrifically mistaken. </p><p>Such speeches worked very well on him when they came from the lips of Lily Evans.</p><p>James brushes the memory aside—Marlene is incoming with the quaffle, and he has approximately three seconds to call the final phase of the play.  He lets out a low whistle and she passes it to him, weaving away to fly circles around the confused-looking Slytherin beaters.  James himself is following behind Colin and Sirius, who have cleared a path for him with their rapid exchange of the bludger, which hisses angrily with each swing of their bats.</p><p>The Slytherin keeper is watching on warily; he is tense upon his broom, staring at the bludger shooting between the two Gryffindor beaters as if attempting to will it out of existence.  James can’t really blame him—he’s the most likely target, with Marlene distracting his two beaters and his chasers too afraid of approaching the Sirius-Colin wall to try and re-steal the quaffle from James’s sure grip.  The keeper’s expectation is exactly what James knows the whole stadium is thinking; and precisely why he’s going to do the exact opposite.</p><p>
  <em>Three.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Two.</em>
</p><p><em>One</em>.</p><p>
  <em>“NOW, SIRIUS!”</em>
</p><p>Like a blink, Sirius has switched his aim and hit the bludger away from himself and Colin.  The keeper jolts upward, virtually abandoning all pretense of protecting the goals in an attempt to avoid the supposedly incoming ball, but it goes nowhere near him—in fact, it flies screaming in the opposite direction.</p><p>Andrew Weatherby is a third-year second-string Slytherin player with not so much athletic ability as he has a diminutive stature and a fast broom; all those necessary fundamentals for a passable seeker. He’s not as keenly aware of his surroundings as he should be, more tunnel-visioned in his chase for the snitch than able to factor it into his perception of the field at large, and this has become increasingly important to James as the match has progressed.</p><p>Consequently, it’s only about two seconds before the bludger is about to nick the front of his broom that he lets out a terrified shout and peels off in a sharp right turn.  He wasn’t near the snitch—in fact, he hadn’t even looked like he knew where to begin searching for it—but the disruption forces the other Slytherin players to look his way, all following the logical progression that, if Gryffindor has gone so far as to attack Weatherby, he must have been close to getting the tiny, elusive ball in his grasp.</p><p>As Sirius has explained it, the aim of Dragon One is that the beaters’ terrifying display will allow James to get within a reasonable striking distance of the Slytherin goalposts; it seems to have worked flawlessly as James races toward the hoops.</p><p><em>Steady, </em>he thinks, <em>keep it steady.  Make this shot and you’ve guaranteed enough points to make it to the semi-finals. Don’t you dare fuck this up.</em></p><p>The Slytherin keeper has barely had time to collect himself from the shock of not being flattened by Sirius’s bludger, and he can do little more than turn in abject horror as James speeds toward him, arm cocked back and smile blinding.</p><p>He leans forward.  He throws.  He prays. </p><p>The Gryffindor stands erupt once again.</p><p>“AND GRYFFINDOR LEADS BY SEVENTY! ALL THEY NEED NOW IS THE SNITCH AND THEY’RE ONTO THE NEXT ROUND—POTTER’S PUT THEM THROUGH!”</p><p>One of the benefits of Dragon One is that not only—if executed correctly—does it guarantee another ten points, but it also disarms the opposing Seeker, which gives Enora a comfortable berth to look for the snitch uninterrupted.  With the necessary points already scored, James sends his beaters back toward the Gryffindor posts, but he yells alternate instructions at his other two chasers.</p><p>“Vantage points!” He shouts. “Chasers to vantage points—<em>now!”</em></p><p><em>Vantage points </em>means James circling one third of the pitch, Marlene another, and Benjy Fenwick, his third chaser, taking the last third.  They’ll play a zone defense against the Slytherin chasers, but the <em>real </em>purpose of the staggered placement is to scour their portion of the stadium for the snitch in an attempt to aid Enora.</p><p>Enora, who, at present, is zigzagging through players with a fierce look in her eye.  Regardless of his contribution, he gives her about ten minutes maximum before she spots it on her own.</p><p>“Clear!” shouts Benjy from near Frank—who’s barely had any action this whole game, James thinks with a wry grin.</p><p>A Slytherin chaser shoots toward James before he can make an assessment of his zone, and he does his best to impede the other boy’s progress, speeding forward to jostle him and swatting at the quaffle before the boy can tuck it under his arm.  He manages to knock it back toward Slytherin’s goalposts; hopefully, it will buy enough time for Enora.</p><p>A two-toned whistle from Marlene sends his hopes skyrocketing.  <em>Once means you’ve seen it, </em>he’s instructed Benjy and Marlene, <em>twice means to your right, three times means to your left.</em></p><p>So it’s in the middle third of the pitch, somewhere off to Marlene’s right.</p><p>“Go, Hornsby!” He yells at Enora, who stopped dead at the sound of Marlene’s whistle.  “Go, go, <em>go!”</em></p><p>Slytherin beaters begin to tear after his small seeker; it sends James’s heart leaping into his throat.  “McKinnon!” He shouts. “McKinnon, clear her a path! <em>Keep them away from her!”</em></p><p>Marlene noses into a dive, trying to block the beater’s path, but he’s too close to Enora—Enora, whose eyes are lit up ferociously as she chases the little golden glint too small for James to see—she’s reaching out, but so is the beater, and Marlene’s too slow, and they’ll collide any second now, he knows it, but she’s so close—</p><p>She leans forward.  She reaches.  He prays.</p><p>A moment of deafening silence pricks his ears.</p><p>“AND HORNSBY GRABS THE SNITCH! GRYFFINDOR <em>WINS! </em>IT’S A GRYFFINDOR VICTORY, FOLKS—TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY TO FIFTY!”</p><p><em>Fucking Dragon One</em>, James thinks, a winded smile growing steadily on his face, <em>Sirius, you beautiful, genius bastard.</em></p><p>James and Sirius had come up with Dragon One (and a slew of other such ridiculous plays) during the summer before sixth year, which, absent of much else to do and yearning for something to fill the time, was spent predominantly on brooms whizzing about Potter Manor’s large, expansive back garden.</p><p>For James, the months before school passed by in a confusing roundabout between comforting and mourning; mourning the wretched way that the previous year had ended, and comforting his best friend so as not to allow both of them to spiral into a fantastic bout of depression.</p><p>Sirius was still knee-deep in his attempts to atone for the Severus Incident of May 1976, and any endeavors to advise him on this (“<em>I’m </em>still fucking pissed at you for it, Padfoot, so I can only imagine how Moony must bloody feel,”) usually ended up with Sirius dragging him into a long session of bemoaning their follies and foibles of years’ past; Sirius for his transgression against Remus, James for his laundry list of transgressions against Lily and the general public-at-large.</p><p>As the crowd cries out around him, he's brought back to a memory from midsummer; a four-a.m. conversation over a bottle of firewhiskey.</p><p><em>“There is a phrase that some American muggle fighting force uses which describes our situations quite aptly,” submits Sirius as he hangs upside down from an ivory colored couch in one of the many sitting rooms of Potter manor, and James thinks it’s quite possible he’s allowed far too much blood to rush to his head, “It’s called a </em>SNAFU<em>.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“…A what?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s an acronym, mate.” Sirius explains as if that clears anything up.  He shifts to a normal seated position and gives himself a woozy moment to recollect his blood flow.  “It stands for ‘Situation Normal: All Fucked Up.’”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>James is starting to see where he’s going with this. However, he still has no idea how Sirius knows so much about muggles, let alone American ones. “Alright?”</em>
</p><p><em>“I mean, think about it: Evans hates you, Moony won’t talk to me except if it’s through you as a mediator, and I’m not entirely sure that Wormtail’s left his house in about three weeks. </em>This<em>—” he gestures vaguely between the two of them, where a game of exploding snap has left scorch marks on both of their trousers, “—might be our new normal.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“I hate our new normal.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“All Fucked Up, mate, I’m telling you.”</em>
</p><p>And, from there, the two Marauders had their own, smaller universe in which to exist.  They had always been brothers, but now they were also begrudged partners-in-crime: the <em>Snafools</em>, they called themselves, whose woe-begotten escapades landed them with the ire of those they cared about most.</p><p>The memory serves as an apt summary of the entire summer before sixth year: James and Sirius running out of places to hide their rapidly depleting supply of stolen firewhiskey, trying desperately to think of a proper way to show the world that they’d changed for the better.</p><p>(Sirius’s penance for his actions, it should be noted, took weeks of steely silence from Remus and a good few grand gestures of good faith and improved maturity—but more on that later.)</p><p>It was the late-night discussions with his parents that set James astride.</p><p>He is not too proud to admit that he’s spent many a night decrying the wretched state of his romantic affairs to Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, the latter of whose advice can be simplified quite accurately into the general sentiments of “get your head out of your arse” and “start treating this girl with respect or so help me you’ll be sleeping in the back gardens for the rest of time,” and the summer before sixth year was nothing short of a drawn-out weeping session to the slightly reluctant audience of his parents. </p><p>His father was sympathetic; his mother exasperated.</p><p>His one comfort is that they—being experienced higher-ups in Ministry affairs—agree with his assessment of the burgeoning brood of Death Eaters creeping around Hogwarts like a hoard of loose dementors.  They listened to his concerns with brows furrowed and lips pursed tightly, admonishing his childishness where they deemed appropriate, but overall sitting in quiet support of his combative stance; if there was one thing that James Potter learned from his parents, it was never to sit idly by and allow injustices to occur without fighting.</p><p>And fighting—in however misguided a manner—he had been.</p><p>On the Lily front, however, things remained confusing, as his parents suggested they would until the next school year began in September.  There was nothing for it but to show her how much he’d improved.</p><p>And show her he absolutely would.</p><p>(Any number of more practical sixteen-year-olds would have given up by now; James is fully aware.  But he ventures one last look to the Gryffindor stands, where Lily has her arms thrown up in triumph, and her jumper has ridden up to reveal just the barest sliver of the pale skin of her stomach, and he remembers at once that impracticality is one of his most valued personality traits.</p><p>He’ll take what he can get.</p><p>Back to the matter at hand—the match.) </p><p>Elated and cheering, the Gryffindor players are circling wildly around Enora, whose face is so red from exertion he has a brief panicked moment where he thinks she might pass out and plummet to the earth. Luckily, she exhales a tired breath and sends a reassuring (if not somewhat dizzy) smile his way. </p><p>The relief in the air intermingles with the joy. Adrenaline, familiar but electric, pumps through James’s veins as he pulls to a stop to watch his players celebrate.</p><p>“FUCKING AAAAAAACE! TAKE THAT, YOU DIRTY BASTARDS!” comes a cry from one end of the pitch; James doesn’t have to look up to know whose it is.</p><p>He takes his broom into a dive and comes to a running stop on the solid earth of the pitch, laughter bubbling up in his chest to accompany the riotous cheering from the Gryffindor stands.  He has but a moment before Sirius lands next to him; the two bound toward each other in the center of the stadium, each face damp with sweat and each grin teeming with jubilation.</p><p>“WE DID IT!” Sirius hollers, throwing his arms around James and laughing into his ear. “WE BLOODY DID IT, PRONGS!”</p><p>James lets out a loud, whooping laugh, his hair sticking to his forehead and his kit nearly peeling with sweat.  “We’re going to the semi-finals!”</p><p>The rest of the Gryffindor team begins to land around them, and James breaks away from Sirius to gather a dazed-looking Enora into an embrace that lifts her clear off the ground.  Beside him, Frank Longbottom is howling victory into the open air.  James doesn’t even chance a look at the other team.</p><p>Various shouts of “Congratulations, Captain!” and “Bloody well done, Potter!” accost his ears—even as he waves them off, reciting his practiced <em>this is a team sport, lads, </em>he can’t help but preen in the face of his success.</p><p>For a moment—a fleeting, blissful moment—James can imagine that there is nothing in the world but the Gryffindor Quidditch team, exchanging hugs and smiles on the grass of Hogwarts pitch; there is no house conflict, there are no Death Eaters, there is no burgeoning war invading the school like a cancerous growth.  There is just the happy rush of sport and the sporadic lions’ roars that erupt from the announcer’s box—a handy bit of charms that they’d convinced Remus to perform in the event of a Gryffindor victory.</p><p>The sunset seems to act in jovial accordance with James’s wishful thinking.  Since the final whistle, the sky has tinged a warm melody of yellows, magentas, and oranges; the soft, golden halo of long-suffering sunbeams emerges around the disappearing sun like a lion’s mane, glittering and proud as the rays fade off into the blankets of hazy red.</p><p>“The <em>Snafools </em>have done it again!”</p><p>Nothing in the world—no Slytherin, no dark wizard, no <em>You-Know-Who</em>—can wipe the smile from James’s face.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Lily Evans is woefully single.</p><p>Alright. Not <em>woefully</em>, really, but she <em>is </em>single and she’s certainly feeling quite a bit of woe as she’s managed to place herself right in front of Frank Longbottom and Alice Fortescue in the Gryffindor common room, who are at present shooting looks at each other that would be well-suited across a table at Madame Puddifoot’s. </p><p>Lily’s taken to sipping her punch—<em>eugh, what is </em>in <em>here?</em>—in order to occupy herself, lest she get caught in the crossfire of their affections and be forced to run for cover. </p><p>Frank tucks a stray piece of hair behind Alice’s ear, reaching in front of Lily and almost knocking her drink out of her hand as if she wasn’t there altogether.  She heaves a sigh and looks heavenward before ducking under the offending arm; her eyes scan the room for a stray compatriot with whom to coexist in her spinsterhood. </p><p>
  <em>Remus, maybe? Or Mary? Not Marlene, surely…</em>
</p><p>The Gryffindor post-match victory party is in full, rowdy swing around her.  Tables are danced upon, butterbeer is swigged from glass mugs, and Lily is quite sure she’s spied a case of pilfered firewhiskey making rounds amongst the sixth- and seventh-years present.  The space has the happy glow to it that seems to accompany any Gryffindor event, as if the room itself is celebrating its students as the students celebrate their success.</p><p>Lily takes another swig of her mildly disgusting punch and watches as a group of third-years stomp plastic snakes beneath their feet, sending sparks of light into the air that spell out <em>Slytherin Sucks! </em>in green, swirling letters.  The corners of her lips tug upward at the sight. </p><p>She’s decided, after equal parts berating and pleading from her friends, to leave her prefect badge in her dormitory and ignore all manner of illegality and rule-breaking; though, just for tonight.</p><p>
  <em>“—And so the days float through my eyes—"</em>
</p><p>She catches Mary and Marlene shouting off-key lyrics to David Bowie’s “Changes” atop a small coffee table that is curiously able to withstand their weight.  Marlene is holding a hairbrush like a microphone, and her long, blonde hair falls over her shoulders like splintered sunlight as she twists and jumps.  Mary, who is slightly shorter, has both hands held aloft, index fingers pointed upward toward the ceiling with her head leaned backward, shoulders shimmying to the beat of the song.  Her eyes are screwed shut in concentration as she sways slightly from foot to foot. </p><p>The second verse shifts into the pre-chorus; the two girls link arms and throw their other hands out to their captive audience.</p><p><em>“—</em><em>And these childreeeenn that you spit on</em>, <em>as they tryyyy to change their worlds—”</em></p><p>The warmth of the alcohol Lily has consumed is spreading pleasantly throughout her belly, and she hums a quiet smile around the rim of her cup.  This song has always been one of her favorites.</p><p>
  <em>“—Are imMUUUNE to your consultations; they’re quite aware what they’re going through!”</em>
</p><p>She breaks into a fit of giggles—<em>just for tonight</em> feels a bit like nonsense.</p><p>“Merlin’s left <em>tit</em>,” Lily hears from a nearby seventh year sporting a righteous scowl as he rubs his temples, “can someone <em>please </em>change the song before McKinnon and MacDonald ruin Bowie forever?”</p><p>“Sod off, Burrows, you great tosser—<em>CH-CH-CH-CH-CHANGES!”</em></p><p>In her cursory scan of the flurrying activity of the party, Lily spies the four troublemakers—<em>The Marauders</em>, they call themselves, as if that makes any sense whatsoever—at the far end of the room. James and Sirius are egging Peter on in his attempt to stuff an entire box of Bertie Bott’s into his mouth, while Remus, the more logical of the foursome, looks on at the scene with a bemused smile playing at his lips.  Peter looks green and quite queasy but is persevering with all of the gallantry he can muster. </p><p>The four of them paint a picture of mischief and mayhem that is hard to ignore, and if this were six months ago, Lily would have confiscated the Bertie Bott’s on sheer principle alone.  But this is now, and she is not who she was six months ago, and the sight of them doesn’t send the tension screaming to her shoulders that it once did.</p><p>Odd, that.  She can’t quite remember when that shift occurred in her mind.</p><p>
  <em>“—tuuuuurn and face the strange—"</em>
</p><p>James throws his head back and laughs as Peter suddenly gurgles out a cry of distress, and Lily sees the muscles in the tall boy’s neck flex in the motion.  The post-Quidditch energy has set him positively aglow.  She pulls her eyes away quickly and focuses them on the fireplace; the final crooning notes of “Changes,” a soft, dwindling saxophone, are melting into quiet.</p><p>“—Girl, don’t you think, Lily?”</p><p>The girl in question blinks at Frank, who’s looking at her somewhat expectantly.  She’d forgotten that she was considered part of a conversation. “Er, sorry. What was that?”</p><p>Frank laughs easily, unoffended and lofty—as is his resting state of being. “Bit too much firewhiskey for the night, eh? I was just telling Alice that I think you’re a shoo-in for Head Girl.  What do you think?”</p><p>“Oh, gosh, I don’t know,” replies Lily, “I don’t know <em>what</em>goes into the choosing process, really, if they passed up on Alice this year for Pendita Parkinson—"</p><p>Alice jumps in, mortified, while Frank just beams. “Oh, heavens, no!” She cries.  Lily thinks that she might be the only person who can still look so pretty while saying something as ridiculous as <em>oh, heavens, no!</em></p><p>“Oh, come on, Alice—you’re a model student!”</p><p>“Well, maybe in <em>theory, </em>but not as much in <em>practice…</em>”</p><p>Lily thinks that Alice is being far too modest and tells the other girl so outright.  Frank looks on as he sips his butterbeer, seeming chuffed that someone else is heaping praise onto his girlfriend while he can simply watch on in confirmation.</p><p>“Just because you don’t <em>like </em>dueling as much as charms doesn’t mean you’re not <em>good </em>at it—come on, you won’t even try it!”</p><p>“Well, I’m going to have to for my Defense N.E.W.T, and I just know it’s going to be awful…”</p><p>Frank deems this an appropriate moment to jump in, shifting over and sliding a hand around his girlfriend’s waist.  “Now, you <em>know </em>you can do it, Alice, we both know you can—I’ll be right there with you the whole time, watching you stun the pants off of some swotty Ravenclaw like the brilliant witch you are.”</p><p>Alice positively swoons.  Lily almost follows her.</p><p>“Oh, damn you two,” she moans pitifully, taking a hefty pull to finish her punch and suppressing the gag that accompanies it, “you’re just so in <em>love</em>.  Can’t you quiet it down for a moment, spare a poor single girl some happiness, please?”</p><p>Alice sends her a placating smile that would have looked patronizing on anyone who wasn’t Alice. “Oh, <em>Lily,</em>” she says, “you’ll find your person soon, I’m just sure of it.  I mean, you’re just too brilliant not to!”</p><p>“Hear, hear!” Frank bellows with a jovial sweep of his free arm, and Lily can’t help but laugh at his ridiculousness.  He is all Head Boy bluster and good spirits—it looks good on him, fitting.</p><p>Realizing her cup is empty and she therefore cannot participate in his cheers, however, Lily schools her features back into a plaintive pout.  Lip jutted out and eyes big and pleading, she thrusts her empty cup towards him, shaking it to and fro to in the universal sign for <em>more, please</em>.  He chuckles and refills it with a sweep of his wand. </p><p>Alice turns to nuzzle her boyfriend in thanks on Lily’s behalf.</p><p><em>I bloody hope I’ll find him soon</em>, Lily thinks, but even the thought itself is skeptical as it enters her mind.  The alcohol tastes just a bit sweeter this time when it hits her tongue, and she can’t be sure if that’s from the amount she’s already drank, or if Frank’s just watering down her drinks for her.  Both options are probable.</p><p>She remembers when he and Alice first got together; how devoted he was to her, walking her to class and complimenting her at every turn, and in those ways that really matter, as well—not just that she was pretty or nice, but that she was capable and competent and would be successful at whatever she chose to do. </p><p>They’re chatting amiably as she appraises them briefly now, Frank’s thumb tracing circles on the curve of Alice’s waist, and Lily considers how nothing about them has changed in the slightest.  Frank loves Alice so earnestly and with such unshakeable conviction, Lily has a feeling he’d be able to throw off an <em>Imperius </em>if it tried to get him to break things off with her. </p><p>It is such a joyous thing to witness, but at the same time, so devastating to lack.</p><p>After all, if the Wizarding world is about to go up in flames, it might be quite nice to come home to something other than an empty flat.</p><p>Just as her brain is about to divert from this particular train of thought, seeking calmer waters like <em>I have an Arithmancy paper due in a week </em>or <em>I want to try on that new jumper I bought at Hogsmeade in December </em>or even the more defiant <em>this is ridiculous I don’t need a man to be happy, damn it, </em>she sees Frank place a quiet kiss on Alice's forehead as they sway along to the music pumping from the record player sat a few feet away.  </p><p><em>Rub it in my face, why don't you,</em> she thinks,<em> that the closest thing I've got to a boyfriend is the portrait of Godric Gryffindor on the fourth floor that tells me he likes my hair.</em></p><p>“Oh, <em>Lily…</em>”</p><p>
  <em>Oh, Merlin.  Did I say that out loud?  I think I just said that out loud.  Bleeding firewhiskey, I should ban it from the grounds—</em>
</p><p>There’s that look again from Alice. </p><p>Blushing, Lily laughs the comment off with a wave of her hand, blaming the joke—because, <em>yes, Alice, it was a joke</em>—on the alcohol and the atmosphere.  She fires off a question to Frank about the Auror academy applications that restarts a bit of normal conversation.</p><p>“Gosh, you know, I hear they’re sending Alastor Moody to seventh-year Defense classes in a few weeks to recruit, and I’ve got to say I hear he’s one of the meanest Aurors around…”</p><p>A prickling at the back of Lily’s neck sends her scanning the room once more, the sensation of someone’s eyes on her shooting a chill up her to the crown of her head.  She turns around to face the great masses of the party before she finally identifies the gaze—James Potter is standing with his friends, as he was before, but he’s staring at her with such intensity now as he sips his firewhiskey that a creeping blush begins to crawl from her cheeks down to her neck.</p><p>A flash of panic grips her as she’s seized by the thought that, maybe, he heard her just now, lamenting her lack of boyfriend, wishing for some dramatic love she hasn’t got—</p><p><em>Absurd</em>, she stops herself, but doesn’t break eye contact with him—a challenge, a question, a silent conversation, <em>he’s all the way across the room.  And it wouldn’t even matter if he did.</em></p><p>Lily watches as he raises his cup to her slowly, a smirk creeping across his lips.  She raises hers back.</p><p><em>A toast</em>.</p><p>James Potter is a provocateur, and a troublemaker, and she’s not entirely assuaged in her reservations about him.  A creeping sense of suspicion that has existed in the back of her mind for the past four years makes itself known in little, halting thoughts: <em>he’s a bully, he’s immature, he’s cruel and bull-headed and has no regard for others…</em></p><p>The voice sounds like Severus.  She puts a stop to it at once, but she’s reached no satisfactory conclusion.</p><p>Lily takes a pointedly large sip from her cup. She sees James do the same from the corner of her eye. </p><p>In the corner of the room, someone switches the record—the vibrant tones of <em>Hunky Dory </em>are replaced with silence but for the chatter of the students, and for a moment, it feels incredibly crowding. He’s not stopped <em>looking at her</em>.</p><p>“Ex<em>cuse me</em>—"</p><p>Frustrated commotion mounts the periphery of Lily’s awareness. </p><p>“Oi, Abbott!  I know you’ve a thing about keeping your records clean, but switch the bloody song already, would you?”</p><p>
  <em>“Piss off!”</em>
</p><p>But there follows the tell-tale scratch of a needle meeting vinyl, and relieved shouts erupt across the Commons. “Well, <em>finally!”</em></p><p>“Alright then, Hornsby, how’s about <em>you </em>play disk jockey for a few hours? See how well you do with fifteen different people shouting requests in your ears?”</p><p>“…Carry on, then!”</p><p>“That’s what I thought.  Now, if any of you’ve got a problem with <em>The Who</em>, you can come right over here and I’ll tell you where you can shove it, you pig-headed trolls.”</p><p>
  <em>Charming.</em>
</p><p>The first lyrics of “The Kids Are Alright” ring through the throngs of dancing Gryffindors.  A few fourth years begin to shimmy and jive a few feet away, laughing breezily as their friend charms his cup to dance along with them—little arms and legs sprout from its sides.  <em>The Kids Are Alright, </em>indeed.</p><p>“—<em>I feel I gotta get away; bells chime, I know I gotta get away</em><em>—"</em></p><p>Over the course of the past few months, things have undoubtedly quieted down between herself and James.  Lily entered sixth year wanting nothing to do with him or the rest of his merry band of miscreants; but it is the combination of patrols with Remus (who by now is a very good friend where he before was only a pleasant acquaintance), a lack of incidents on James’s part (which nearly sent her into a spiral of paranoia at the beginning of term until Marlene reasoned that, maybe, he actually just <em>wasn’t doing anything</em>), and the absence of a certain Slytherin putting ideas in her head that has led her to such drastic reevaluation of his character.</p><p><em>Mudblood, </em>comes a hissing voice in the back of her head, <em>filthy mudblood.</em></p><p>A shiver travels up her spine before she can think to stifle it.</p><p>Sirius barks out a laugh across the room.  Lily's sure it has something to do with Peter, who looked to be in dire straits the last time she threw him a glance. She doesn’t even have to look at him to know that James is still staring at her.  She fights the urge to ask Alice or Frank if there is something on her face, at the same time as she's accosted by the sudden desire to snap at him from across the room, "what do you <em>want?"</em></p><p>And what a question that is. </p><p>Annoyingly, Lily can’t really put a finger on what <em>she</em> even wants out of this tentative ceasefire with James.  Friendship? Acquaintanceship? A simple lack of hexing from one party to another?</p><p>To follow is an easily compiled list of the things she <em>doesn’t </em>want: she doesn’t want to itch around him for the rest of the year.  She doesn’t want to hold her breath when he walks through the Common Room, hoping not to feel his stare on the back of her head while she does her work.  She doesn’t want to stifle her laughter when he and his three mates pull a funny prank.</p><p>
  <em>“—I know if I go things would be a lot better for her; if I had things planned, but her folks won’t let her—"</em>
</p><p>She wants Severus’s voice out of her head. She wants to believe that people can change for the better.  She wants to get all of her NEWTs done and enter into the wizarding world.</p><p>Most of all, though, she just desperately wants some peace.</p><p>As Lily tips back her cup, she realizes that despite the fact that she and James have just effectively <em>cheers</em>’ed each other from across the room, she has nothing in mind for a toast. It’s a sign of bad luck in muggle households—a toast without a wish is like an empty promise to the universe. </p><p>Lily’s had enough empty promises for a lifetime; she searches her mind for a wish to make. James’s intense gaze arrests her thoughts, which is just shy of infuriating.</p><p><em>To a cessation of hostilities</em>, she thinks.  <em>To peaceful coexistence.</em></p><p>The punch barely registers on her tastebuds as she takes another gulp.  She very intentionally does not wonder if James is toasting to anything across the room.</p><p>“‘Atta girl!” Frank laughs, already refilling her cup. She reasons that he has probably not been watering down her drinks. “Time for us prefects to let loose!”</p><p>Grinning, she takes another swig. “Couldn’t agree more, Frank.”</p><p>It takes about two more drinks and twenty minutes for Lily to forget that she was ever sad about her lack of boyfriend, and only a few minutes more to forget anything to do with James Potter—Marlene drags her up to join herself and Mary on the tiny wooden table <em>which really shouldn’t be able to hold all of their weight, </em>and they throw their arms up to dance to “My Generation,” which bounces off the walls of the Common Room in the various keys of thirty-odd different voices.  </p><p>Lily laughs with one arm thrown around Marlene, the other around Mary.  The words come easily in her inebriated state, and she sings like the common room is Wembley Stadium:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>People try to put us down</em>
</p><p>
  <em>(Talkin’ ‘bout my generation)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Just because we get around</em>
</p><p>
  <em>(Talkin’ ‘bout my generation)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Things they do look awful cold</em>
</p><p>
  <em>(Talkin’ ‘bout my generation)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hope I die before I get old</em>
</p><p>
  <em>(Talkin’ ‘bout my generation)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This is my generation</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This is my generation, baby!</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>“<em>Merlin, </em>I am absolutely never drinking again.”</p><p>“Oh, stuff it, Marlene,” moans Mary from her perch over the toilet, “we both know that’s a crock of shit.”</p><p>Alright.  Marlene does, in fact, know that she will absolutely drink again.  In fact, she’ll be drinking again at the next Gryffindor victory at Quidditch, or possibly even just the next Slytherin loss, and again with a passion once exams are over… the point being, her statement holds little truth.</p><p>But truth is a fickle thing, best-suited for mornings which do not begin by taking turns vomiting firewhiskey into the sixth-year girls’ toilet.</p><p>As it happens, Marlene is sitting with her back flush against the maroon wall of the dormitory’s ensuite loo, blonde hair pulled into a haphazard ponytail at the base of her neck as she pats a cool washcloth against various points on her face.  The Gryffindor post-victory-party hangovers are the stuff of legend—and the sixth-year girls have most assuredly won themselves a spot in the lore.</p><p>“You alright out there, Lily?” Marlene croaks at a slightly louder volume<em>—ow, mistake, mistake, big mistake.</em></p><p>“Merlin and <em>Mor-fucking-gana</em>,” comes a groan from outside the door, where esteemed prefect Lily Evans is lying face-up on the hardwood floor in her sleep shorts and someone else’s bra, “what in the name of Godric was <em>in </em>that <em>punch?!”</em></p><p>Mary looks up from the edge of the toilet. Her eyes are rimmed red and her skin is a shade paler than normal.  “Death,” she whispers, “<em>death </em>was in that punch.”</p><p>“Why do we not keep pepper-up in the dormitory for occasions like this?!”</p><p>“Because, Marlene, I’ve <em>told </em>you—that shit doesn’t help the hangover at all... it just makes you giddy about being hungover.”</p><p>“Quite right.  Never mind. Evans, you got any potions that can make my head stop playing the Durmstrang school song?”</p><p>“If any one of you asks me to stand over a cauldron right now, you’d best be prepared for me just to throw up into it.”</p><p>“…Pumpkin juice and toast it is, then.”</p><p>Light padding footsteps and the shuffling of cupboard drawers alert Marlene to the presence of Alice outside of the bathroom, who had the good sense last night to drink in moderation and is now happily awake and devoid of any vomitous impulses.  Marlene tries to stamp down the wave of resentment that pools in her stomach at the older girl’s non-hungover state, only to realize promptly that it may just be another bout of nausea.</p><p>“<em>Uuuuuuuuggghhhnnnn…</em>”</p><p>“Well said,” agrees Lily somberly.</p><p>And thus begins a slow-going, more-than-slightly agonizing round-up toward breakfast that involves mismatched blouses, skirts and trousers thrown blindly from one girl to another, and more than a few complaints that the sun <em>really </em>ought not to be so bright, for Agrippa’s sake, it was not gone half-nine, and <em>why is everyone yelling?</em></p><p>The walk to the Great Hall feels like it takes about fifteen years.  Marlene glares at every student that dares to greet the group with a cheery “good morning!” and watches with grim satisfaction as they scurry away in fear.</p><p>“Bloody Hufflepuffs,” she mutters, “too peppy.”</p><p>The rest of the gaggle of girls just groan in accordance.</p><p>Well, except for Alice.  Alice looks like she’s walked out of the cover of <em>Witch Weekly</em>. Marlene begins to think she might actually hate her for it.</p><p>It is a comfort, then, to see the ever-famous Marauders sitting at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, looking just as worse-for-wear as Marlene feels.  The girls sit across from them to face the rest of the room.</p><p>“Alright, lads?” Asks Mary with a yawn.  The four of them take turns sending her some form of acknowledgement: for Remus, a half-hearted wave over his cup of black coffee; for James, an unenthusiastic salute that somehow knocks his glasses askew (“not <em>again!”</em>); for Peter and Sirius, undignified grunts that do not interrupt their focus on their respective plates of a Full English.</p><p>“So,” begins Marlene as she grabs as much grease-ridden breakfast food as is immediately physically possible, “how’s about we tally up the night? Highlights <em>and </em>lowlights?”</p><p>James snorts.  His glasses are somewhat righted.  “It’s all muddled together for me.  Can’t tell a highlight from a lowlight from a middle-of-the-road light, if I’m honest.”</p><p>“Oh, tosh!” counters Sirius, who has now evidently regained a bit of energy after inhaling a worrying portion of beans on toast. “Watching Peter eat an <em>entire </em>box of Bott’s was certainly a highlight—”</p><p>“—<em>lowlight</em>—” interjects Peter at once; he looks a bit peaky at the mere mention of the affair.</p><p>“—but I must say, being in the same room as him when he threw it all up was a bit of a turn for the worse.”</p><p>The four girls turn simultaneously to face the shorter boy, who somehow looks even more dismayed than he did a minute ago. “It’s true,” he laments, “got it all over my Charms textbook.  Trouble is, I can’t remember what the charm is to clean it…”</p><p>“Any other highlights?” Marlene asks quickly. She eyes Remus patting Peter on the back in consolation and thinks he’s doing a bang-up job of hiding the smile that threatens his comforting look.</p><p>(At this moment, Lily leans over the table to whisper <em>“scourgify” </em>to Peter by way of advice, and a small stain on his brown knitted jumper disappears at once.  He lets out a small yelp.)</p><p>“You and Mary very nearly sang a David Bowie song correctly,” submits James.  Marlene raises her hand without looking to her side and feels Mary slap a high-five to it promptly, “that was a highlight for me, but a lowlight for anyone with fully-functioning ears.”</p><p>
  <em>“Hey—"</em>
</p><p>“—You’ve got <em>sight problems</em>, Potter, not hearing ones.  Try not to mix up your senses in your vulnerable mental state.”</p><p>“Touché.”</p><p>“I’ve got a highlight!” says Lily, and all eyes turn toward her.  A shy smile spreads across her face as she sing-songs: “The Head Boy told me I’m a shoo-in for head girl next year—isn’t that right, Frank?”</p><p>The Head Boy is stumbling from the entrance toward the pitcher of pumpkin juice when Lily speaks, and he sends her a bleary-eyed look of mild confusion.  His hair is unkept and his sweatshirt is—for some reason—half-tucked into his trousers. “Um,” his voice is rough and gravelly as though he’s using it for the first time all morning, “yes?”</p><p>A quick look of confirmation from Alice has him nodding more confidently.  Clearing his throat, he elaborates: “yes, quite.  Yes.  I agree with whatever Lily’s said.”</p><p>She’s triumphant; James, Marlene, and Sirius are less than impressed.  “Oh, come <em>on,</em>” complains Marlene, “that has got to be the most swotty party highlight in the history of <em>ever</em>.  Dig, Evans, dig—scandal! Intrigue! Party! <em>Sex!”</em></p><p>“Alright, you never said it had to be <em>party-related—</em>”</p><p>A chorus of groans interrupts Lily’s defense, and she shifts tactics to sticking her tongue out at each of the offenders. “Oh, whatever<em>.”</em></p><p>“Lowlight, then, Evans?” It’s James Potter that challenges her, eyes alight with mischief behind his glasses.  Marlene fights a grin as she looks at him—gods, it’s like he doesn’t even <em>try </em>to be subtle.</p><p>Lily pauses, thinking.  “Well, I—”</p><p>And then all speech seems to fail her as she spots something in the distance and blanches—so considerably, in fact, that it seems like someone has sucked all of the color right out of her.  The eight accompanying Gryffindors look at her for a brief moment of shared confusion before swiveling about in their seats to scan the room.</p><p>“…Evans?”</p><p>From next to her, Marlene hears Lily make a second attempt.  “I…”</p><p>It takes Marlene all of about two seconds to spot what has her so spooked: a horde of Slytherins have stalked into the Great Hall, expressions thunderous—supposedly in the wake of their tremendous Quidditch loss—and Severus Snape is staring daggers at Lily as he takes his seat.</p><p>Now, to Marlene’s understanding, this whole affair ended soundly in June of last year, which no one is happier about than herself.  Lily is one of her best mates—a fact that she will defend until dying breath—but <em>gods, </em>the way that Snape kid grated on her nerves when he used to hang around. Not only is he just a creep of the <em>n</em>th degree, but it would seem that he isn’t even attempting to hide his disgusting blood supremacist allegiances now that Lily’s tossed him. </p><p>
  <em>Twat.</em>
</p><p>Once Sirius spots the cause for Lily’s distress, Marlene knows, there’s no stopping the deluge of sarcastic comments about to pour from himself and his mates. </p><p>She’s proven correct almost immediately.</p><p>“Eugh, they let all manner of people into the Great Hall these days, don’t you think?”</p><p>“I do concur, Padfoot—any more of those lot in here and we’ll have to change its name to the <em>Decidedly Average Hall</em>.”</p><p>“The Mediocre Hall for all of your Nearly Adequate Gatherings—"</p><p>“—The Tolerable Hall for all those Second-Rate and Unremarkable?”</p><p>“For the love of Merlin, you two,” sighs Remus, “<em>please </em>don’t go starting a House war before I’ve finished my coffee. I’d draw my wand with all the speed of a Dungeon Troll.”</p><p>“Moony, for shame! We’d never do such a thing. I’m aghast to even think it. Isn’t that right, Prongs? My good lad?”</p><p>“Quite right, too—I’m but the picture of obedience and academic achievement!”</p><p>“Oi,” interrupts Mary, “hate to interrupt this adorable little performance, but it’s a bit early for eighteenth-century diction. <em>Blimey</em>, you rich boys…”</p><p>Marlene agrees.</p><p>“I agree,” she says, “I’ve already got one thing upsetting my stomach.  Don’t need you four slobbering all over each other to make it worse.”</p><p>“Slobbering?!”</p><p>“I wasn’t even—”</p><p>
  <em>“Slobbering?!”</em>
</p><p>“Honestly, lads, she’s got a point…”</p><p>“Traitor! Moony, I’m <em>wounded!”</em></p><p>
  <em>“—Slobbering!”</em>
</p><p>Amidst all of this chaos, Marlene sees that Lily has not so much as smiled at the boys’ blathering antics.  Her face, which has not at all regained any of its previous lively hue and seems to be stuck in this sickly sort of pallor, is very pointedly turned down toward the sparse food laden onto her plate (she’s always been an “I can’t eat with a hangover” type, which is really just the worst sort of person, if you ask Marlene).  The fingers unoccupied by her fork are tracing the pocket of her trousers in which her wand resides.</p><p><em>So, it’s not that she’s sad anymore, </em>ponders Marlene, <em>she’s preparing for a fight.</em></p><p>Well, to hell with it then—Marlene’s never been one to shy away from a good scrap, even if she’s not entirely sure what triggers it.  Her own fingers inch toward her left boot under the table.</p><p>“So,” begins Sirius at length, “As I was saying…”</p><p>The group descends into another round of heated discourse over the highs and lows of last night’s party. </p><p>Apparently, Sirius has placed a small set of dungbombs on a timer in one of the girls’ bathrooms, but he <em>can’t seem to remember which one</em>, so the girls had better stick to their dormitory toilet until the dungbombs reveal themselves. </p><p>Alice giggles that she witnessed a fourth year named Eloise hex a fifth year boy—who kept trying to kiss her, apparently, so the table cheers in her favor—with fish lips that remained in a disturbing sort of pucker as he ran out of the common room and presumably raced to the Hospital Wing.</p><p>“I remember that!” cries Frank.  He elaborates that the boy in question tried to swear at Eloise in anger, all waving hands and faced flushed crimson, but all that came out of his mouth was <em>wub, wub, wub! </em></p><p>A great burst of laughter erupts from the table in response, and Marlene briefly wonders if Eloise would be happy to know that she’s succeeded in impressing the legendary Marauders.</p><p>After the group’s mirth dies down into latent giggling, Remus contributes—with a wry shadow of a grin—that they’ve somehow managed to completely drain the mysteriously never-ending stock of firewhiskey that usually sits under the boys’ beds.  He shares a conspiratorial sort of look with Sirius.</p><p>“We’re out, you say?” The long-haired boy smirks and raises his arms to weave his fingers together behind his head. “My, I do suppose we’ll have to re-supply!”</p><p>
  <em>These fucking boys and their weird little inside jokes.</em>
</p><p>“That’s well and good,” sniffs Marlene, “but I’m not paying anything above half the market price for my share!”</p><p>Mary scoffs. “<em>Never drinking again, </em>indeed.”</p><p>“Oh, come off it.  We both knew I was lying the second it left my mouth.”</p><p>“Well, yeah, but you could at least <em>try</em>—it’s only been twenty minutes!”</p><p>“Which is nineteen more than the last time. Now, leave me alone and pass the jam, you Scottish wench.”</p><p>Mary rolls her eyes but obliges, and Marlene rewards herself for her witty victory by slathering a piece of toast with raspberry jam.</p><p>Various accounts of <em>who snogged who </em>and <em>you won’t believe who I saw hunched over the toilet </em>resume amongst those present.  The appearance of the Slytherin boys is quickly brushed aside.</p><p>Or, <em>mostly </em>brushed aside—Lily has yet to look up from a slice of orange that sits neatly on her plate.</p><p>“—left the Common Room for a weird amount of time, yeah, and then I walk out and she’s pressed up against the corridor wall by <em>Benjy fucking Fenwick! </em>I was sure I’d have to bleach my eyes—they were just all limbs and mouths and what-have-you; it was <em>ghastly</em>…”</p><p>As it were, Marlene is not the only person to notice Lily’s continued state of disillusionment.  James has been glancing at her periodically through his friends’ little diatribe, and the longer she stares at her food, the more tightly his jaw seems to clench.</p><p>"—And I said to him, 'no, you're in <em>third year</em>, I'm not giving you any of my drink' because, I mean, the <em>audacity!</em> What problems do third years even have to drink away, anyway? Risk Azkaban or <em>worse</em>—detention with McGonagall—just so little Timmy with the newly minted Hogsmeade slip can get pissed? I don't bloody think so!"</p><p>The boiling point of it all comes when Antony Mulciber lets out a loud, cackling laugh, the likes of which bounce off the walls of the spacious room and seem to dull the warm tones of light that shine through the stained-glass windows.  There’s the sound of his hand slapping someone’s shoulder, and then he exclaims, “What a <em>brilliant </em>idea, Severus! I think that would prove our point <em>very </em>quickly!”</p><p>Lily’s eyes fly toward the other table, and Marlene doesn’t even have to look to see that Mulciber is staring her down; probably with that disgusting little smirk all over his face.  He’s had a penchant for tormenting Lily and Mary since the beginning of fifth year, and things only seemed to get worse after the end-of-the-year <em>incident </em>with Snape. </p><p>Marlene knows that one day Lily is going to snap—any rational person would, really, being subjected to relentless torment because of something as ridiculous as “impure blood”—but she must admit that it would be nice to avoid such an event at a mealtime.</p><p>She watches as Lily’s hand clenches around her wand, and thinks, <em>this is going to get messy.</em></p><p>But messy it does not get—because James has already stood up from the table with his wand drawn.  Across the room, Mulciber and his slightly dumber counterpart, Roger Avery, are standing as well. </p><p>Severus Snape is looking steadily down at his own plate.  Marlene thinks he’s a coward.</p><p>It’s a tale as old as time, really, the way James jumps up so quickly to march toward the Slytherin table, the way his shoulders are tense and the muscles in his arms are flexing under his woolly jumper and long, satin day robes.  It’s a repeat, a flashback, a memory played out on loop—a Slytherin threatens a muggle-born, and James Potter casts himself in the way.  It’s as gallant as it is utterly predictable.</p><p>He lifts one leg over the bench; Marlene snatches her wand from her boot.  She sees a few teachers begin to tense at the head table from her peripheral vision, their eyes trained on the eruptions of motion from the two ends of the room. McGonagall in particular is sending James a look that should, for all intents and purposes, set him on fire: <em>don’t you dare take one step toward the Slytherin table,</em> it says.</p><p>James is unable to make any such advancements.  This is because only a second later, as if possessed by McGonagall herself, does Lily hiss:</p><p>“Don’t you <em>dare!”</em></p><p>He freezes—and so does everyone else in the immediate vicinity.</p><p>The exclamation has scolded James into an incredulous sort of stillness, his entire body a livewire as his head turns so he can send her a shocked look. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” says James slowly, <em>“what?”</em></p><p>“Don’t you <em>dare </em>go over there and get into a fight, Potter, or I’ll have house points so quickly you won’t even have time to mourn the Quidditch Cup.”</p><p>
  <em>“What?!”</em>
</p><p>The entire group is looking at the two of them, now, and have all gone silent.</p><p>“You heard me.”</p><p>“You’ve got to be having me on.”</p><p>Lily gives him a hard look—it’s miles away from the solemn way she was looking at a piece of citrus only minutes earlier. “I’m doing nothing of the sort.  Sit <em>down.”</em></p><p>“Are you mad?” James asks.  His tone sounds somewhere between angry and downright bewildered. “Are you… are you <em>defending them?”</em></p><p>“Don’t be daft.  They haven’t done anything wrong, so there’s nothing to defend; I’m just stopping you from doing something stupid.”</p><p>James splutters for a brief period, and Marlene is reminded of the fifth-year boy who could say nothing except for <em>wub, wub! </em>“They <em>haven’t done anything wrong?!”</em></p><p>“No,” Lily’s voice is sharp steel, “they haven’t.”</p><p>There is a <em>whoosh </em>as James’s robes fly up behind him, billowing out over the bench as he sits back down with a huff. His face is stony, but Marlene’s known him long enough—seen him at his worst, really, in the aftermath of the Broken Broom Catastrophe of ’74—to see the hurt underlying his expression; in the moral universe of James Potter, everything is black-and-white, good against evil, Gryffindor against Slytherin, Auror against Death Eater.  The nuances appear somewhat more difficult for him to grasp.</p><p>Which is a problem, one might say, when the object of his affections deals almost exclusively in <em>nuance</em>.  Marlene sometimes thinks that if Lily had the time, she’d go around picking everyone’s brain about their childhoods, aspirations, and deepest fears, just to get a deeper understanding of what makes them all tick.</p><p>Speaking of <em>ticking—</em>a vein is throbbing visibly above James’s eyebrow.  He pushes around a forkful of tomatoes on his plate.</p><p>“I can’t believe that you’d still pick his side,” he mutters darkly.</p><p>There follows a combined intake of breath from the rest of the table that communicates a vague sentiment of, <em>oh, you’ve done it now.</em></p><p>Lily’s face is fluctuating between a startling sort of red and its previous deathly pale.  Marlene stamps down the urge to look around for whoever might be flicking a switch back-and-forth that’s labelled <em>Lily Evans: Temperature</em>.</p><p>“Or <em>maybe</em>,” she hisses, and her face has apparently decided to stick with red, as it’s moving across her cheeks and crawling quickly toward her neck like an indignant wildfire, “I just know that the more you antagonize them, the harder they’re going to make life for people like <em>me.</em>  I know that life begins and ends with grand, heroic gestures for you, Potter, but some of us actually have to deal with the repercussions.”</p><p>With a sharp look and a flourish of her long skirt, Lily heaves herself from the table and is out the door in an instant, muttering something along the lines of <em>stupid toast</em> and <em>bloody ceasefire</em>, which all sound like the quiet ravings of a madwoman to Marlene, but she lets the incident pass without comment. </p><p>All eyes fall to James; he is staring at the place she was just occupying with wide eyes, as if her ghost has returned with the resolute intention to scold him further.</p><p>A beat follows—it is as if all mirth has been sucked from the group. </p><p>It surprises no one that Sirius is the one brave enough to break the silence.</p><p>“A winning strategy there, Prongs,” he deadpans, “establish a months-long sort of peace, and then obliterate it in a matter of three minutes by doing the exact thing that got you in trouble in the first place.  I think the Bulgarian side of the Goblin War of 1873 attempted something similar.”</p><p>“Oh, quit taking the mickey, Sirius—he’s proper upset!”</p><p>“Mary, if my good friend James here were to get <em>proper upset </em>every time he stuck his foot in it with Evans, I’d have already requested for him to be sleeping in a separate dormitory.”</p><p>A testament to his defeat, the boy doesn’t even turn his head to defend himself.</p><p>“He’s right, unfortunately,” sighs Remus, “mucking things up with Evans is almost a happy little ritual for James—I think I saw it written on his timetable, once.”</p><p>James’s head hits the mahogany of the Gryffindor table with a solid <em>thud</em>. “Gods, why do I always <em>do </em>this with her?”</p><p>“Because you’re an idiot,” supplies Peter—he is apparently no longer the most pathetic in the group and looks absolutely chuffed about it.</p><p>“Right. I almost forgot. Thanks, Pete.”</p><p>Marlene takes pity on him. “Well, besides the fact that you’re an idiot—”</p><p>“Cheers, McKinnon.”</p><p>“—<em>besides </em>that, I think she did take it a little harshly.  This stuff with Slytherins always gets her riled up, you know.  Don’t take it too personally.”</p><p>“Ha!” Sirius barks. “<em>Don’t take it too personally! </em>Quite easy for you to say, Marlene, you’re not going to have to listen to him go over this conversation again and again for the next hour—quick, if any of you have something clever to say, now’s the time.  He’ll be repeating it on loop until dinner.”</p><p>James doesn’t even look up to flip Sirius the middle finger, which is very nearly impressive, Marlene thinks, because it’s not as if he looked anywhere but at Lily for the entirety of the meal, so the fact that he’s even able to locate Sirius amongst the group is a bit of a shock.</p><p>Frank and Alice excuse themselves, citing Head duties and homework respectively.  Marlene heaves a sigh and tucks back into her toast—for all of this blustering and hubbub, she’s still got a raging headache. </p><p>James’s head remains on the table.  Any hopes for a peaceful, happy brunch with which to stave of the previous night’s hangovers seem to have exited the Great Hall with Lily.</p><p>Marlene is about to abandon the table when appears a vortex of curly hair and a sarcastic grin.</p><p>“Wotcher, you bunch of pricks?”</p><p>In a fit of what must be divine providence, Dorcas Meadowes has picked this exact moment to drop by and clap James on the shoulder, stunning him out of his wallowing stupor and forcing him upright.</p><p>“Well, hello to you too, Dorcas!” Sirius grins at her; she rolls her eyes.</p><p>Dorcas Meadowes is a Slytherin sixth year of the strangest nature: she’s incredibly good-humored, a friend to many a muggle-born student, and wickedly talented on the Quidditch pitch.  She’d have been playing seeker in yesterday’s game, in fact, if she hadn’t nearly torn her leg off in practice only two days prior in failed attempt at a Wronski Feint.  Marlene sees the small cane she’s using and winces in sympathy.</p><p>“Alright, Meadowes?” She asks brightly.  The two of them have gotten on like a house on fire since second year, when they nearly came to blows over a Slytherin-Gryffindor match in which neither was playing.  It was Hooch’s first time entering the reserve boxes to break up a fight—and it’s one of Marlene’s fondest memories.</p><p>“Would be much better if you’d played worse yesterday, McKinnon.”</p><p>“Not my fault your team’s left in shambles when you’re not there.”</p><p>Dorcas laughs loudly at this, unperturbed by the barb at her House team. “I’ll take that. They’re like chickens with their heads cut off in my absence, I swear…”</p><p>She turns then to look at Mary, who’s absently pushing eggs around her plate.  Mary has never been one for Quidditch talk; it’s one of the few things she and Marlene don’t share.</p><p>“Alright, MacDonald?”</p><p>Mary jumps—as if shocked to be singled out—but looks up after a moment and smiles softly. “Hey, Dorcas.  Alright, and you?”</p><p>“Been better, been worse.  You and McKinnon actually look alright, considering the tales of woe I’ve been hearing from every Gryffindor above the age of fifteen today.  No hangover?”</p><p>“Are you kidding?!” Marlene laughs and throws an arm around Mary, who looks unsure of how to respond. “MacDonald and I took turns getting intimate with the toilet this morning.  If we look at all ‘alright,’ it’s because your eyesight’s going, not because of us.”</p><p>Dorcas shrugs.  Sirius, who is apparently offended to be left out of the compliment-sharing, chimes in. “How come you never tell <em>me </em>I look alright, Meadowes?”</p><p>“Because you never do, Black.  You look like a twat.”</p><p>“<em>Hey—”</em></p><p>That’s another thing about Dorcas.  Not only is she not <em>attracted </em>to men, she’s made it a point since fourth year to tell every male in her acquaintance that she’d much rather spend a day drudging the bottom of the lake than give them any sort of compliment that isn’t related to Quidditch performance.  Marlene thinks it’s a product of sharing a Common Room with the blokes in Slytherin; if she had to spend more than ten minutes per day looking at Antony Mulciber and Alecto Carrow, she’d probably give every man in the surrounding area a telling-off just by association, too.</p><p>Sirius, Merlin bless him, has yet to grasp the concept that someone may exist in the wizarding world who doesn’t want to snog to him. He’s making his case to Dorcas—waving around his long, black hair and showing off his strong jawline—when Marlene looks back over at him.  She snorts into her toast as James tries to ward him off from performing a striptease in the middle of the Great Hall.</p><p>“Please, for the love of Merlin, leave it <em>alone, </em>Padfoot.”</p><p>“She called me a twat!”</p><p>“No, I didn’t,” corrects Dorcas loftily, “I just said you <em>look </em>like one.  So does Potter—it’s part of the whole rich pureblood thing.”</p><p>James rolls his eyes, apparently already done refereeing between the two. “Right.  Thanks ever so much, Dorcas, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind next time I owl mum and dad. <em> I know dad’s usual gig is hair potion, but got any anti-twat draught?”</em></p><p>“Gods, there are so many jokes I could make right now, I’m having trouble running through them all.”</p><p>“Sod off.  You know what I meant.”</p><p>Dorcas gives both Sirius and James each another hearty clap on the back—which sends scrambled eggs spewing out of Sirius’s mouth and nearly onto Remus’s plate, and causes a chain reaction of disgust from both Remus and all those sitting near him—and departs with well-wishes.  She sends a wink to Mary and Marlene that says, <em>I knew that would happen</em>.</p><p>Marlene doesn’t doubt it for a second.</p><p>“Fucking madwoman,” Sirius hacks, pounding himself on the chest with a closed fist, “trying to bloody kill me—"</p><p>Now that there remains only two girls and four boys, Marlene turns to Mary in hopes of some sort of stimulating conversation; hopefully something that doesn’t revolve around vomit or secret passageways they won’t tell her about or trips to Zonko’s joke shop.</p><p>She looks at Mary and suddenly recalls a brief period—maybe twenty minutes or so—when the other girl disappeared last night, in the midst of a spectacular dance break to <em>Queen</em>’s self-titled album. Marlene nudges her shoulder gently. “What about you, Mary? Any highlights to share with your best friend?”</p><p>After a brief silence, the likes of which Marlene is not expecting from such an innocuous question: “I snogged Caradoc Dearborn last night.”</p><p>Marlene is floored—Mary has been after the Ravenclaw boy since fourth year. “Mary, that’s <em>fantastic!” </em>She cries.</p><p>“Yeah,” Mary’s smile is genuine but slightly hollow, as if happy about the accomplishment of the act rather than the act itself, “it was brilliant.”</p><p>Well, <em>that </em>certainly sets Marlene’s mind. No sixteen-year-old girl should be so subdued, she knows, after having her first kiss with one of the more sought-after bachelors in school.</p><p>A quick glance at the four boys across the table confirms that they have not been listening to a single word Mary’s said, and are instead involved in some sort of hushed-up conference of their own; Marlene hears the words “Slytherin” and “bullhorn,” and promptly decides that she wants no part of whatever scheme is currently being cooked up.</p><p>“Come on,” she whispers, “let’s go get Lily and have a grand old complaining session in the Astronomy Tower.  I’ll bring the chocolate frogs.”</p><p>Mary smiles again, and this time it’s full of life, all dimples and crinkling eyes, “I think I could use that.”</p><p>The two link hands and wave a quick good-bye to the boys, who bid distracted farewells from their close huddle. Marlene heaves a sigh as they walk along; their arms swing merrily in between them.</p><p>“You know,” she says, “for a magical school, the drama here is awfully pedestrian.”</p><p>Mary laughs, and the sound echoes brightly off the grey stone walls, like a little burst of sunlight that bounces from brick to brick.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Fear has been a friend to Regulus Black since he was approximately two-and-a-half years old. </p><p>He thinks it was his second friend—his first was his older brother, who would blow bubbles with him at bath time and pull funny faces behind Mother’s back when she was cross.  He’d been a constant in Regulus’s young life since the first time he opened his eyes; there sat a happy, bouncy boy in front of him, dangling a stuffed Kneazle in his infant face and laughing,<em>“Knea-vull, Reggie! Knea-vull!”</em></p><p>Yes, Sirius was most certainly his first friend; and his most precious.  </p><p>It became apparent very quickly to Regulus that no one—except for Kreacher—deemed the brothers Black worthy of much attention, so they were often left to their own devices for much of his first few years on earth, with Sirius dragging him along as fast as his little legs could waddle, pointing out different portraits on the walls and sticking his tongue out to them to watch as they gasped in dismay. </p><p>Sirius was quite good at making Regulus laugh when it was just the two of them—for the first two years of his life, that’s all Regulus remembered; bounding up the stairs after mealtime with his brother to make shadows dance along the cavernous bedroom walls.</p><p>So, in Regulus’s life, Sirius—as he did with most things—came first.</p><p>Fear came shortly after.</p><p>Regulus made its acquaintance for the first time when his father found him in one of the off-limits studies of Grimmauld Place. Regulus tried to defend that he wasn’t <em>snooping</em>—although attempting to communicate this with his two-year-old lexicon was proving incredibly difficult—but he and Sirius were playing hide-and-seek, and he’d run out of hiding places in the bedroom wing, so he <em>had </em>to find a new place or else Sirius would win, and he’d already won the last two, so this was <em>very—very—important.</em> </p><p>In his mind it made perfect sense; he never saw anyone go in these rooms, really, so what else was there to do but utilize them for hide-and-seek?  The room was big, and dark, with towering navy chairs and ancient-looking statues; there were so many places to hide, his father must have understood.</p><p>But Orion Black, it became clear, did not.  </p><p>Regulus left the study with tear-stained cheeks and rapidly reddening welts on the backs of his calves, and he knew (more than he knew anything else at the tender age of two, when the world was made up of hopes and possibilities instead of obligations and sureties) <em>never</em>to go into the big, dark studies ever again.</p><p>Sirius let Regulus wipe his tears and mucus on his shirt that day.  He kept his arms curled protectively around him until the younger boy fell asleep.</p><p>So, to tally the friends of Regulus Black: Sirius first, fear second, and Kreacher coming in at a distant third.  It remained a stagnant list through most of Regulus’s young life.</p><p>Out of the three of them, fear has been the only friend to stick around.</p><p>It is present now, in fact, a nagging sensation that used to clog up his throat before he learned how to swallow it down. It swells a little the more that Mulciber talks, but he doesn’t let it show.  He’s been tuning the other boy out for the past five minutes—he nods absently when he feels like it’s appropriate, rolls his eyes when the other boy says something worthy of it, and sometimes he’ll even contribute an affirming sort of “hm” should the need arise.</p><p>Regulus occupies his mind by trying to figure out how everything went so wrong. </p><p>He wonders if Mother knows when that was, or Father, or even Sirius himself; maybe they can tell him, and then he could go back to that moment and turn it around, smash it to bits, obliviate everyone involved—he’d do it in an instant, no matter the risks.  He’d shake his older brother by the shoulders, and yell, <em>why couldn’t you have gone into Slytherin? Why did you leave me here alone?</em></p><p>Because Sirius Black was Regulus’s first friend—that’s true—but he was also his first heartbreak.</p><p>Mulciber is still talking; he’s apparently unaware of the other boy’s blatant disinterest.</p><p>Sirius is little more than a tragic memory now, his presence at school a reminder of all that Regulus has to be—because of all that he rebelled against.  Mother forbids Regulus from speaking to him; she says he’s dead to the Black family, so he should be dead to Regulus as well.</p><p>
  <em>But doesn’t she know—hasn’t she seen—that Hogwarts castle is full of ghosts? </em>
</p><p>“—Lord will be very pleased to see you join his ranks, Black,” Mulciber is saying, and Regulus finds himself nodding along dully, “your family are valued supporters of the cause.”</p><p><em>All except one</em>, he thinks.</p><p>His dormitory bed feels more like a prison than it ever has in the four years that he’s been at Hogwarts; with Mulciber leaning up against one of the wooden posts, he looks like a gleeful sort of warden.</p><p>But this is what Mother and Father want, he knows. This is what he has to do, because he’s the only one left.</p><p>“We’ve got something planned in a few weeks,” Mulciber says as he inspects his nails with a proud sort of laziness, and the pleasure eking out of his voice makes Regulus want to vomit, “something <em>big.</em>Something that’ll impress the higher-ups.”</p><p>If Regulus wants to impress the <em>higher-ups</em>, all he has to do is show up at a family reunion.  He doesn’t voice this aloud.</p><p>Phantom pains itch at the backs of Regulus’s calves, and he curls them slightly under himself as he lays face-up on his bed. He sees the face of Orion, his eyes a coal black and his features sharp as though brought to life from one of the statues in the studies, and he blinks the image away.</p><p>“Alright,” he says.  His voice is monotoned and dry—just how his mother likes it. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>**I know that on the actual album, "My Generation" comes before "The Kids Are Alright," but this is fiction, so I'm taking liberties. Also, yes, this album came out 10yrs prior to the story, but it's a classic, ok?</p><p>So, what did we think? We're in it now, folks - I can't wait for you all to see what I've got planned.  This chapter was /so much/ exposition, but gotta get that out of the way to get into the plot, yknow?</p><p>Let me know what you thought! Go and drop me an ask on Tumblr, @clare-with-no-i, so I can answer any burning questions! I'll be posting snippets and teasers there, too.</p><p>A few things: one, I hope you enjoyed the Quidditch scene; I know it was long, but I put so much thought into what Dragon One looks like, it felt like a disservice to all the pieces of scrap paper I spent drawing it up to not write it out in full. lol.</p><p>Two, I want to give a shoutout to some pieces of media which have motivated the hell out of me to write: 1st is "The H Project" on instagram and TikTok, which does a 3D rendering of Hogwarts that is so incredible I'm not sure that it isn't just sitting in the Scottish highlands irl. 2nd is another TikTok shoutout, to "myaseven" who makes some AMAZING Marauders edits that have given me so much inspo. 3rd is the video "Marauders | HOME" on YouTube, which I watch pretty much every time I want to write about them.  </p><p>Anyway, 'till next time...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Problem with Sentimentality</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mary reels from a less-than-impressive encounter with Caradoc.  Lily's heart cracks and begins to heal, all in the span of a few days.  Multiple things burst into flame.  Sirius lets his emotions take over, not for the last time.   James asks some dumb questions but gives some good advice.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>here we are! ch2!! thank you all for your patience.</p><p>the biggest of shoutouts to my wonderful reviewers on the last chapter: secretsongdeer, vasymollo, lilmint, possessedmarshmallow, Nina, ysbha, annawritesthings, and UrshyUrska! you all were the motivating factors behind this chapter, and I dedicate it to you &lt;3 </p><p>And, now, onward to the chapter...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Ah, when to the heart of man</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Was it ever less than a treason<br/></em>
</p><p>
  <em>To go with the drift of things,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>To yield with a grace to reason,</em>
</p><p><em>And bow and accept the end</em>,</p><p>
  <em>Of a love or a season?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Robert Frost, <em>Reluctance</em></p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span class="u">February 1977</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Mary MacDonald is not having the sort of day she feels like she deserves.</p><p>The past few days, really, if she thinks very hard about it—there are a certain few things a girl is owed after she has her first kiss with the object of her long-term affections, and Mary has experienced exactly none of them since she finally worked up the courage to snog Caradoc Dearborn after the Quidditch party those five days ago.</p><p>Firstly, she’s barely seen Caradoc since their kiss, which in itself is such an affront that she has half a mind to stalk toward Ravenclaw tower and demand an explanation from him, but Alice has assured her that, <em>no</em>, sometimes boys are just this stupid that they think it’s okay to leave you in waiting after something as momentous as a first snog, and Mary’s under strict instruction not to go to him, but to wait for <em>him </em>to come to <em>her</em>.</p><p>Secondly, the sixth years have a nine-a.m. Defense Against the Dark Arts class this particular morning—which, if you ask anyone who’s ever taken a class with Professor Hemlock, is more of a threat to the student well-being than any dark magic they’ve studied thus far.</p><p>Thirdly—and this one <em>really</em> grates on her—she’s not even sure that it was a good kiss.</p><p>She explains this to Lily and Marlene as they make their way to Defense. “I mean,” she says, “it was <em>nice,</em> I guess—it was up at the astronomy tower, and the view was pretty, and he was really quite sweet…”</p><p>“Not what I asked, MacDonald!” Marlene’s voice is a tinkling of superior-sounding bells.  “Was—it—a—good—snog?”</p><p>“I’m telling you; I don’t <em>know!”</em> Mary huffs.</p><p>“Um, Mary,” intones Lily lightly, looking a bit concerned, “how do you…not know?”</p><p>“I just <em>don’t!”</em></p><p>Marlene rolls her eyes.  “For Merlin’s sake, Mary, what did you <em>feel?</em> Did it do anything for you? Did you get any butterflies or, y’know, <em>other sorts of feelings</em>?”</p><p>It had felt like lips pressing on lips, to be quite frank.  Mary doesn’t particularly feel like admitting this to either of them. “It was nice!”</p><p> “Well, in that case, stop it right there—I’m going to get too turned on if you continue.”</p><p>Lily elbows Marlene in the ribs, who’s waving her arms about like the absolute drama queen she is. </p><p>Mary thinks she’s being just a fair bit hypocritical.  Marlene has never expressed any sort of romantic interest in boys—at least, not in the way that other girls have.  Ever since she first got a copy of <em>Ms. </em>magazine from a cousin in America in fourth year, she’s been on one long-winded feminist tirade that only really ceases when she takes breaks for meals.  She has absolutely no interest in dating or long-term relationships, because, as she’s said, men serve “largely no purpose but to provide momentum behind the penis.”</p><p>Which is, in a word, charming.</p><p>“Oh, like you’re one to talk!” Mary defends. “Don’t act like <em>butterflies</em> are something you’re even familiar with, you crazy feminist!”</p><p>“<em>Hey—</em>I may be crazy, and I may be a feminist; but do <em>not</em> lump the two together, thank you very much!”</p><p>“You two are ridiculous,” sighs Lily, “come on—we’re going to be late, and Hemlock will have our arses if we’re not in our seats when he walks in.”</p><p>Marlene recoils, shuddering, but she quickens her pace all the same. “If you could please refrain from saying <em>Hemlock</em> and <em>our arses</em> in the same sentence ever again, that’d be grand.”</p><p>The three girls giggle all the way into the classroom, and Mary and Lily take their seats at the front, while Marlene rushes over to sit with Dorcas—whose head is slumped onto her wooden desk, and who is presently drooling just the slightest bit onto her roll of parchment.</p><p>“Oh, <em>gross!”</em></p><p>Marlene’s exclamation—equal parts amused and disgusted—startles Dorcas right out of her sleep. “<em>Wha</em>—what? Huh?"</p><p>“You’d better thank me, you cow, I just saved you from detention with Hemlock.  Now, if you’ll just—<em>scourgify!”</em></p><p>At once, the parchment is cleaned of any evidence of Dorcas’s nap, and Marlene sits down next to her with a fond roll of her eyes.</p><p>Mary and Lily sit at the very front of the class—which was a shameless bid for approval from Hemlock at the beginning of the year, destined both to fail miserably <em>and</em> leave them permanently resigned to the spots.  Mary’s been carving a little <em>MM</em> into the wood of the desk with her quill for the past few weeks; as of today, she’s on the final line of the second <em>M.</em>  It feels like an accomplishment.</p><p>“Hello, ladies,” says a velvety voice from behind them, “and might I say, you’re both looking—”</p><p>Lily doesn’t even spare him a glance as she taps the golden badge on her robes. “Prefect, Sirius.  Not giving you my homework.”</p><p>“Right you are, Evans.  Nothing gets past you.  Which reminds me: <em>Mary</em>, might I say how absolutely ravishing you look today?”</p><p>Mary rolls her eyes but obliges, handing over her scrap of parchment to Sirius with a look of warning.  This all comes much to the dismay of Lily—who is, at the moment, pretending she doesn’t exist, scribbling small doodles into the corner of her textbook.  <em>I &lt;3 David Bowie.</em>  <em>Hemlock = vampire?</em></p><p>“You can copy mine, but only because I’m afraid if I don’t hand it over, you’ll keep flirting.”</p><p>“Exactly my plan!” He leans forward to press a loud kiss to her cheek, which releases with a <em>pop</em> as he takes the proffered document. “This is why I love you so much, MacDonald.”</p><p>“<em>Ew—</em>Sirius, you bloody slobbered all over me.”</p><p>“Like a dog, he is,” contributes a grinning James Potter, who has just sat down at his designated seat next to Sirius and thrown his arm around him, “slobbering this way and that.  We’ve been pitching obedience school for years, but alas…”</p><p>“Piss off, Prongs.”</p><p>“Calm down; I’m just messing.” He turns to look at Mary and then, to the surprise of no one, Lily—who is staring resolutely ahead of her. “Alright, Evans?”</p><p>“Just brilliant, Potter, thanks.”</p><p>Apparently nonplussed by her less-than-enthusiastic tone, James beams pleasantly at the back of her head and sends a hand north to ruffle up his hair, as if she might turn around and say, <em>if only your hair were messier, I might like you</em>. </p><p>Mary just rolls her eyes.  <em>Boys</em>.</p><p>If this is the caliber of species that Caradoc is doomed to inhabit, she’s got no hope at all.</p><p>The few seconds of relative peace are interrupted by Sirius’s sudden jolt sideways, his arm outstretched toward his deskmate, who is absolutely none the wiser.</p><p>It is a moment of calculated retaliation—he’s evidently waited for James’s distraction to exploit the opportunity—when Sirius sticks a wet finger <em>(ew)</em> into his ear with a battle cry of: “I’ll show <em>you</em> slobbering!”</p><p><em>“OI!”</em> James squawks with a flail of limbs. “C’mere, you mangy little—"</p><p>To their left, Remus and Peter are snickering into their respective textbooks.  Mary attributes this all to some sort of inside joke she’d really rather not know about.  She shoots Sirius—who is in the process of shoving James roughly from his person—one last pointed look as she wipes the back of her hand on her cheek and turns to face forward.</p><p>The door to the Defense classroom bangs open and shut as she pulls out her quills, which elicits a flinch from both herself and Lily next to her—professor Hemlock has entered the room, armed with his usual level of ire for his pupils.</p><p>“Good morning, students.” The phrase <em>good morning</em> sounds more akin to a condolence than a greeting. “Textbooks to page two-hundred and seventy-two.”</p><p>Mary rolls her eyes. “Ray of bleeding sunshine, that one,” she whispers to Lily.</p><p>“Like a goblin, but… taller,” Lily whispers back.</p><p>They make sure to shut up as soon as Hemlock approaches earshot-distance, lest he catch them whispering and assign them each five hundred lines of <em>I Will Not Disrupt The Class By Talking</em>.</p><p>He makes his way to the desk sat facing the students.  With a wave of his wand, a piece of chalk levitates and begins to write out letters on the blackboard.  <em>N, O, N, V, E… </em>“Today, we’ll be discussing nonverbal magic.  Can anyone tell me what the advantages of nonverbal magic may be?”</p><p>A number of hands shoot up, Mary’s and Lily’s included.  Hemlock barely chances them all a glance before saying, “Potter.”</p><p>Mary turns to see James—whose hand was not up, she notes grumblingly—leaned back in his chair.  He and Professor Hemlock have been in a sort of cat-and-mouse since the beginning of term; Hemlock seems perennially infuriated that James is a career academic slacker with the marks of a savant, while James continues to play a proverbial game of chicken with him, trying to see how hard he can push the beleaguered professor until he finally snaps.</p><p>Mary has since resigned that, while it’s infuriating to watch, at least it passes the time before Arithmancy.</p><p>“Well, professor,” he begins, and sets his feet atop his desk as though lounging in the south of France, “the benefits of nonverbal magic are that in a duel, casting nonverbal spells gives you a half a second’s advantage—the other person doesn’t know what you’re casting, and they don’t have the notice of hearing it aloud, so they won’t be able to effectively counter as they would a spoken spell.”</p><p>If any other person said it, they would receive house points.  Instead, all James receives is: “get your feet off your desk, Mr. Potter.”</p><p>“Gladly, sir.”</p><p>“Now, does anyone else know of any <em>other</em> benefits to nonverbal magic?”</p><p>Another slew of hands.  Another responsive beat in which said hands are ignored as Hemlock seeks another unwitting victim.</p><p>“Well, now that you <em>ask,</em> sir,” says a smug voice—it’s James Potter again.  In the three minutes since class has begun, he’s already working Hemlock up into <em>DEFCON 2</em>; a little vein protrudes from the side of the professor’s neck. “Nonverbal magic is a key skill for wizards and witches to have should they be silenced for some reason, like a physical gag or a silencing charm.”</p><p>It’s an infuriatingly correct answer.</p><p>Before Hemlock can reply, Lily turns around to face James with the marble expression of a seasoned prefect. “Speaking of silencing charms,” she says coolly, “it’s really quite a wonder you’re not under one at all times.”</p><p>Scattered chuckles escape the surrounding students.  Over the past few months, a running joke has made its rounds that Hemlock ought to deputize Lily if he ever wants to get anything done during lessons; Mary doesn’t think Lily needs the additional power.  However, there is argument to be made that Lily’s the only one with any hope of keeping James and Sirius in line.</p><p>Mary slides another quick look at James, expecting him to look rebuffed.  Instead, his grin has only grown as he pulls his legs back to the ground, and he leans forward to rest his chin on his elbows, propping himself up to look at Lily fondly. “Right you are, Evans.  On with the lesson.”</p><p>Lily—clearly—isn’t expecting this reaction.  She blinks once and turns forward quickly; her hair brushes against James’s nose in her fervor.</p><p>By the time the class gets back on track to learn proper theory behind nonverbal magic (“Summon it from <em>within </em>you, use those stores of magic inside your body and intermingle them with the concentrated magic of your wand,”) and Sirius has lost Gryffindor five House points for neglecting his classwork (“But I <em>was</em> working—you just couldn’t hear it!”), Mary has given up trying to get anything productive done altogether.  She’s never had any talent for Defense class, though it’s a recommended N.E.W.T for Healing; something or another about knowing what hexes cause what type of damage, and so on and so forth.  Dorcas and Lily usually get the top marks between them; she usually prefers to copy their notes.</p><p>The lesson passes rather quickly.  As the clock tower chimes nine-fifty, she reconciles her lack of progress with a shrug.  She’s managed to move her quill from one end of the desk to another with her lips tightly shut.  It’s a marked improvement from the Slytherin girl at the next desk over, who looks on in ill-hidden envy as her desk partner successfully levitates her bookbag.</p><p><em>If looks could kill</em>, she thinks<em>, Bertha Jorkins would be a pile of ash on the ground</em>.</p><p>Next to her, Lily’s staring determinedly at a small stack of books in the corner of the room, wand clutched tightly in her grip, brow furrowed in concentration.  Mary makes the mistake of opening her mouth to speak before—of all sodding people—Sirius Black slaps a hand over her mouth and nods in Lily’s direction.</p><p><em>“Shhhh!”</em> He hisses—as if the hand-over-mouth situation isn’t obvious enough.  Mary shoots him a rather hostile look.  She didn’t even hear him get up from his desk.</p><p>As she furiously scans his face for vulnerable points to stab with her quill, she notices James staring just as intently as Sirius is next to him; normally, this wouldn’t be of any note, as the boy spends about sixty-five percent of his day staring at Lily, but this time his eyes are scrutinizing. </p><p>He’s watching to see if she can pull off the spell.</p><p>The “would you get <em>off of me?!”</em> Mary attempts to seethe to Sirius is muffled and incoherent, but he gets the message all the same, and the offending hand releases her mouth before she has a chance to bite it in retaliation—though he doesn’t even look away from Lily, who is one gigantic ball of tense muscle.</p><p>“You’re going to want to see this,” he whispers.</p><p><em>I don’t need you to tell me that</em>, she wants to whisper back.</p><p>Another few seconds tick by.  Nothing happens.  Lily looks on the verge of a breakdown. It’s a difficult role-reversal to abide, this Mary-watching-Lily-be-frustrated-in-class business. </p><p>Just as she’s about to extend a hand to Lily’s shoulder, suggest trying again next lesson before she pops a blood vessel, the topmost book of the stack disappears with a <em>pop</em>—where it had laid just moments prior now only remain loose particles of dust, floating down to rest atop the previously clean surface of the other books.  Mary recognizes the spell immediately: <em>evanesco.</em></p><p>“Right on, Lily!” She gasps.  Vanishing objects is hard enough when speaking the spell, let alone trying to do it nonverbally.  It’s hard not to be impressed.</p><p>“Brilliant,” grins Sirius, “think you can vanish Hemlock without saying anything?”</p><p>James is notably silent.  Mary sends him a questioning look, but his gaze rests squarely between Lily’s shoulder blades, laser-like and unmoving.  It takes her a moment to realize what he’s apparently already observed: Lily’s not done yet. </p><p>The tension in her shoulders has yet to release, her eyes are still trained on the spot from where the book has just disappeared, and her breathing comes out as clipped little pants of air.  She closes her eyes after a moment, and it’s as if the air around her begins to swirl and dance—Mary subconsciously grips the table in front of her, lest she be caught up in the vortex.</p><p>“Lily, what—”</p><p>As if to respond to Mary’s yet unasked question, the book reappears on hers and Lily’s shared desk with another, soft <em>pop</em>.  It’s an antique copy of <em>Spellwork in Seven Hundred Languages</em>, dust-covered and worn; the edges of the maroon cover are torn and wilting, like someone had run their thumbs across the corners one-too-many times.</p><p>Lily sighs next to her.  Her eyes come open; her expression satisfied.  The look fits her as comfortably as her Hogwarts uniform.  She’s used to being excellent.</p><p><em>What it must be like,</em> thinks Mary.</p><p>“Bloody well done, Evans!” Sirius whoops, grinning.  He throws a rough pat to her shoulder in what is probably a supportive gesture but appears more like an off-kilter slap, and Lily jolts briefly in her seat before turning his way and nodding.</p><p>James’s voice startles both Lily and Mary into looking at him. “Hell of a spell to pick,” he says, “most people would have gone for a summoning charm.”</p><p>“I guess I’m not most people.”</p><p>“No,” James’s voice has an odd tone to it, and the look on his face is inscrutable, like he’s trying to school uncooperative features into a look of indifference. “No, you’re not.  Damned good witch, though.”</p><p>Mary and Sirius exchange a quick glance: <em>are you hearing this shit?</em></p><p>“I—” Lily sends him a scanning look, like her eyes might burn through the compliment and reveal some nefariousness that lies underneath.  Evidently seeing none, she softens slightly. “—thank you, Potter.”</p><p>Mary stifles the urge to turn around and beckon Marlene over: <em>are </em>you <em>hearing this shit?</em></p><p>Herein lies Mary’s problem: if she were to ask Lily what in Godric’s name is going on with her and James (Friendship? Acquaintanceship? <em>Courtship?</em>), she’d get a lecture about how <em>just because they’re no longer mortal enemies doesn’t mean they’re chummy, either</em>. </p><p>Mary doesn’t want a lecture.  To be completely honest, Mary would be just as entertained to see the two have an impromptu duel as she would to see them have an impromptu snog, so in the long run, the finer points are of no real consequence to her.  But <em>Merlin</em>, these tiny interactions are just teeming with—<em>something.</em></p><p>James just grins. “You’re welcome.”</p><p>“Alright, then,” sighs a somewhat harassed Professor Hemlock from in front of Marlene and Dorcas; the two girls have been nonverbally attempting to zap each other for the past five minutes to little avail. “It’s about two minutes early, but… go ahead. Out with you.”</p><p>He really is delightful, that Hemlock.</p><p>Mary begins to throw parchment into rucksack with a feverish sort of alacrity, eager to get out of Hemlock’s classroom and onto more interesting fare; namely, agonizing over whether or not she has the right to publicly smite Caradoc Dearborn for his lack of communication.</p><p>Being sixteen is hard.</p><p>She and Lily get up from their desks; Mary lets out a small sigh. </p><p>“Theory after bloody theory,” mumbles a Hufflepuff named Elliana Kim to her Ravenclaw deskmate as they pack up, “I’ve read enough theory to rewrite <em>Classical Grimoires A-Z.</em>”</p><p>“Tell me about it.” The other girl—Rose? Rosa? Rosalind?—shoves her textbook into her bag with a roll of her eyes. “A galleon says that when we get to dementors, we spend the lesson learning how to spell <em>patronus</em> instead of actually making one.”</p><p>The two girls laugh as they exit the room; Mary and Lily bid Marlene and Dorcas goodbye (the latter two girls have Care of Magical Creatures, while the former two chose Arithmancy instead) and follow them out.</p><p>“So,” Mary begins, “do you think Caradoc—"</p><p>Her books are almost thrown from her grip as she’s jostled by two bodies pushing between herself and Lily to sprint toward the door, and she has to momentarily scramble to keep her divination book from hitting the floor and spouting some unwitting student’s fortune as they pass by.</p><p>“Check you later, MacDonald! Evans!” calls Sirius Black—the culprit—with a salute, James Potter immediately in tow, as per usual.  James turns around as he jogs to give the two of them a proper wave, sending a toothy smile Lily’s way that has the other girl rolling her eyes.</p><p>“Bloody ridiculous,” Lily grumbles, “the two of them.”</p><p>“You’d think they’d have grown into their limbs by now.”</p><p>“But for the grace of God go I, with my normal proportions.”</p><p>“Amen.”</p><p>The two dissolve into a fit of conspiratorial laughter as they walk.  While Mary and Marlene have a special bond—clicked from day one, the two of them, like magnets—Mary’s eternally grateful for Lily in moments like this, as she walks the halls lined with portrait upon portrait of ancient, pure-blooded wizards, each with family lineage traced backwards and forwards from before the Common Era to 1970.  There’s an unspoken bond between muggle-born students; it’s a survival pact as much as it is a shared history.</p><p>They walk for another few moments.  Mary ponders the merits of bringing her kiss experience up once again.  Lily wouldn’t mind, really; at least, she wouldn’t show it outwardly.  Marlene and Dorcas are both hopeless for the subject in their own unique ways—at least Lily <em>tries</em> to be helpful.  She’s weighing her options as they turn out of a small staircase and end up on the second floor.</p><p>And then, it happens.</p><p>When Mary will describe this moment in the future, she’ll recall it as something pulled straight from the pages of one of Alice’s romance novels.  She’ll remember where she was, who she was with, and she’ll remember that, in one way or another, this particular Thursday morning at the end of February, 1977, is a watershed moment in her life.</p><p>Mary MacDonald receives a rose.</p><p>Well.  <em>Receives</em> is such an interesting word, really, because it implies that there is a <em>giver </em>as well as a <em>receiver</em>—but in this case (to Mary’s endless confusion in the moment in question) there is no such giver in sight.</p><p>It occurs as follows:</p><p>As Mary enters the second-floor corridor and begins to make her way toward the Arithmancy classroom, a single rose floats toward her, looking for all the world like an omen of death, blood-red petals fluttering lightly in the breeze of movement.  Students clear it a path; they watch in wonder as it appears to appraise them briefly—<em>no, not that one, not that one either</em>—before landing in front of her, a tiny floating Excalibur, frozen in midair.  The card attached opens with a tiny burst of light.</p><p>Utterly confused, Mary ignores the wolf-whistles from around her and opens it.</p><p>
  <em>To Mary,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m so sorry I haven’t been around.  Busy week.  Let me make it up to you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>From, Caradoc</em>
</p><p>She reads it once.  Then again.  And then—for good measure—a third time.  The message sends an odd swooping into her stomach, like all of the food she had for breakfast has unionized and decided to take a swift right turn without informing the rest of her body. </p><p>For all intents and purposes, this is an answer to her earlier prayers—it’s forthright, it’s communicative, and it shows interest on his part.  It’s exactly what she wanted. </p><p>She hands the card to Lily and reasons that the sensation must be butterflies.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>      </p><p> </p><p>Love does not die of old age. </p><p>Love does not die in stillness, with a parting wish and a hand to hold.  Love dies screaming and anguished; love dies lashing out, hissing contempt and scratching bloody marks into proffered skin.  Love suffers long, but it dies brutally.</p><p>For Lily Evans, love dies in a letter.</p><p>It arrives at lunch this same Thursday, the words <em>Lily Evans, Griff-in-Door </em>written in Petunia’s careful script across the envelope, and it sends Lily into a maelstrom of emotions over her midday meal.</p><p>First is excitement, because Pet has never, <em>ever</em> written a letter to her at school before, and there’s a fleeting few seconds where Lily lets herself believe that she may have finally come round, that this letter is an olive branch, that maybe—<em>possibly, hope against hope</em>—Petunia’s going to let herself back into Lily’s life.</p><p>Then comes confusion, because she’s older and wiser than she used to be, and Sixth Year Lily will not fall into the same traps that First or Second or even Fifth Year Lily did.</p><p>And then, finally, she arrives at the destination of unbridled horror.</p><p><em>Something’s happened to Mum and Dad</em>, she thinks, hands shaking, <em>they’re dead and she’s writing to tell me and I’ll have to go home to an empty house and I’ll never see them again—</em></p><p>Marlene peers at the return address that Lily is currently staring at, unblinking. “Is that… did your<em> sister</em> write to you?!”</p><p>Shaking herself out of her stupor, Lily murmurs, “…yeah.”</p><p>“Well,” Marlene lets out a low whistle. “I’ll be damned.”</p><p>
  <em>So will I.</em>
</p><p>There’s no point in speculating, really.  She might as well just get it over with. </p><p>Whatever’s in there probably isn’t as bad as she’s imagining.  It’s most likely just an ‘urgent’ complaint about Lily’s bridesmaid dress for Petunia’s upcoming wedding—only two weeks away, Lily knows, because it’s been drilled into her head that she’ll be flooing with McGonagall to her house on that Saturday and back to Hogwarts again Sunday night—or a rant about how Lily will have to stash her wand up in her bedroom (which she won’t) during all of the proceedings, lest someone peek up the skirt of the disgustingly fuchsia puff-sleeved gown Petunia’s forcing her into and see her thigh-holster.</p><p><em>It’s probably nothing</em>, Lily tells herself with steadying breaths, <em>it’s probably nothing.</em></p><p>It’s probably nothing.</p><p>And then she reads the letter, and a little bit of her world wilts before her eyes.</p><p><em>You’d be getting in the way, </em>she reads, <em>and I just know you’d pull some sort of stunt with that freakish nonsense and pull all the attention to yourself like you always do</em>…</p><p>She doesn’t realize her eyes are welling up until the word ‘uninvited’ turns into an inky blob on the paper—she’s apparently let a stray tear fall onto the page.</p><p>“Lily?”</p><p>She hears Marlene’s concerned voice as if from underwater, muted and garbled. </p><p>There is no way to explain that this is the end of hers and her sister’s relationship.  There is no way to articulate that, sometimes, it feels like the only way she might ever find common ground with her sister is if she takes herself apart and presents the pieces to Petunia, waiting patiently, silently, for her sister to put her back together again, watching as she kicks the pieces she doesn’t like under the rug and slides tape over the holes left over.</p><p>“It’s—” the words catch in her throat.  They attempt to claw themselves back down her esophagus, as if keeping them inside will make them untrue. “I’m uninvited to the wedding.  Her wedding, I mean.  She told me I can’t come.”</p><p>“Fuck,” Marlene swears, “that fucking bitch—”</p><p>Lily doesn’t particularly want to hear it.  She appreciates Marlene’s vehemence on her behalf, but the room has—all of a sudden—started to tilt, and she needs to get <em>out, out, out</em> before she does something ridiculous like burst into a fit of audible sobs.</p><p>“I’ll be fine,” she says. It sounds hoarse and paradoxically full of air at the same time. “I’ll be fine.  I’m going back to the tower—I’ll see you later.”</p><p>The path back to Gryffindor tower is well-trodden, familiar; it takes her only a few moments to orient herself toward the Fat Lady’s portrait.  She’s almost grateful for such muscle memory, like her body is gently laying her mind to rest, a soothing sort of catatonia designed for the ill-at-ease; an attempt for her consciousness to curl in upon itself for shelter, for healing, for warmth.</p><p>The password to Gryffindor Tower this year is <em>“codswallop.”</em> Lily mumbles it to the Fat Lady and proceeds listlessly up to her dorm—she doesn’t miss the indignant huff from the portrait at her brusqueness.</p><p>Nor does she miss the second letter that arrives, this one written by her father, chicken-scratch writing on too-expensive paper.  It comes to greet her through the open window of the girls’ dormitory, where she is lying face-up and unmoving on her bed.  Elliot the owl gives a self-satisfied hoot as she takes the envelope out of his mouth.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she says, “I haven’t got any change for you.  But come back tomorrow and I promise to give you a treat for your troubles.”</p><p>Elliot sends her an impressively disdainful look, but he’s gone by the time she peels open the letter and begins to read.  The words are sloppy and pressed together as though written in a terrible rush.</p><p><em>Dear Bee, </em>it says (<em>Bee</em> is short for <em>Bambi;</em> it has been Lily’s nickname from her father ever since she saw the film for the first time at the ripe age of three and developed an unhealthy obsession with the cartoon), <em>I’m sure by now you’ve received Petunia’s letter.  I’m so sorry, Bee, your mother and I are just shocked.  She and Vernon are so adamant, though, and while I can’t even pretend to understand or respect the decision, I am being forced to admit that it is her wedding…</em></p><p>He goes on to explain how his hands are tied, as are her mother’s; there’s nothing they can do, really, as <em>much</em> as he wishes they could.  It’s Petunia’s wedding, he keeps writing, as if it gives him penance, as if she might forget from one paragraph to the next, it’s Petunia’s wedding; as if she needs reminding that the only reasonable way to explain the slight is that her own sister is at the helm of it. </p><p>He says he’s already taken the liberty of owling professor McGonagall—she reads that particular sentence over and over again, the little placations and resolutions, the salve he’s trying to put on the wound.</p><p>
  <em>I thought it might make it easier for you, Bee.  I know how awkward these types of things can be.</em>
</p><p>“These types of <em>things?”</em> Lily hisses out loud to the empty beds in the room.  The question echoes shrilly off the wood-paneled walls. “What, the <em>things</em> where your daughter is a self-centered shrew? Where my own professor knows how much of a reject I am? Yes, how <em>awkward</em>.”</p><p>She thinks briefly of the fuchsia bridesmaid’s dress sitting in her bedroom closet at home.  She can picture it, still wrapped up in a garment bag, with its high neck and long sleeves, barely cinching at the waist, every inch of fabric meant not to accentuate but to cover.  She imagines it collecting dust—wonders if the dyes in the fabric will begin to dull, pulling it gradually from the bright, arresting pink to a dark salmon, and maybe, one day, all the way to a lifeless grey.  She wants to set it on fire.</p><p><em>You’d be getting in the way</em>, Petunia had written. The thought infuriates her the more she mulls it over. <em> Like you always do</em>.</p><p>Sparks begin to emerge from the paper before she can find it within herself to stop them.  It’s a burst of wandless magic, the likes of which she hasn’t seen since The Before—since magic was something of fairytales, and Severus was just the odd, pale boy down the street.  She watches in wonder as the corners of the page erupt into tiny flames, slowly eating their way across to meet in the middle like old friends; lapping at her father’s script with greedy hisses, curling the ends of the paper into bits of withering ash that float up toward the ceiling, each tiny fragment engulfed in its own lazy, swirling path. </p><p>The flames have worked their way toward the center of the page by the time she blows them out, and her fingers are tinged with charcoal-colored dust.  She looks at the mangled scraps of her father’s message as she sets the paper down. </p><p><em>I’m so sorry,</em> it reads, <em>I can’t even pretend.</em></p><p>*       *       *</p><p>The prospect of patrolling with Remus is what eventually ejects Lily from her despondence.  She proceeds to the rest of her classes as a lifeless automaton version of her normal self, biding her time until they’re to meet outside the portrait. </p><p>Patrols with Remus are always a highlight of her week; he’s just the right mix of mischievous and rule-abiding to make the long walks fun, and they’ve begun assigning each other books to read or music to finish between the days when they patrol together—this week, Lily had him listen to the album <em>Fleetwood Mac</em>; and she had to read <em>The Shining</em>, a new novel by Steven King.  She’d been up most of the night finishing the last few chapters.</p><p>“It was <em>insane!”</em> She marvels as they trudge toward the Grand Staircase. “Thank <em>Merlin</em> for Hallorann—I was so terrified he’d get Danny in the end!”</p><p>Remus grins at her waving arms. “I know,” he agrees, “I thought the same thing.  I think I stayed in the same spot for about forty-eight hours straight trying to finish it; I was knackered by the end.  Had no idea what day it was.”</p><p>“But the <em>hotel—”</em></p><p>“—and Danny—”</p><p>“—and <em>Grady!”</em></p><p>The two share another laugh as they’re jolted sideways by the moving stairs.  <em>To the third floor it is</em>.</p><p>She asks him what he thinks about <em>Fleetwood Mac</em>.  His eyes light up; clearly, he must have liked at least part of it.  She loves this about Remus—whenever he really, genuinely appreciates something, the brown in his irises brightens to a shimmering bronze, like his whole being is somehow lighter for its existence.  He stares at a portrait of a slumbering hippogriff, lost in thought.</p><p>“Landslide,” he sighs dreamily.</p><p>Lily can commiserate.  When <em>she </em>first listened to the album, the dulcet tones of Stevie Nicks drove her into a depressive strop unlike any she’d experienced since the end of last year, and it all ended up with an intervention by Marlene, who eventually told her, <em>you’d better play something happier or I swear I’m throwing that record off of the Astronomy Tower.</em></p><p>“Landslide,” she agrees.</p><p>The two make their way through the third floor with little incident. </p><p>It’s a weeknight in late February, and the slushy, foggy conditions have made for a less-than-amorous atmosphere within the castle.  There are few couples to break up, and fewer stragglers to worry about as the evening ticks on.  As they trudge along the building, Lily relaxes with the thought that this patrol appears more as an opportunity to catch up with an old friend than it does a part of her prefect duties, which is a welcome distraction from everything that’s happened in the past twelve hours.</p><p>Until it isn’t.</p><p>“So,” Remus begins, and she already knows she’s not going to like this question just by the way his intonation falls around the <em>o</em>, “feel like telling me whatever’s got you so upset?”</p><p>Lily deflates. “Why can’t you be unobservant like all the other boys in this school?”</p><p>“That’s a cruel generalization—I hear Bertram Aubrey is a fantastic listener.”</p><p>“Well, if you’re talking about <em>him</em>, I’m sure he’s outstanding.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, are there other interesting things to talk about? I wasn’t aware.”</p><p>Lily pauses briefly, considering. “Do I have a chance of avoiding the topic if we keep making jokes?”</p><p>“Probably not, no.”</p><p>“Right.”  A brief pause follows, in which the words don’t seem to want to come out.  As usual, Remus waits patiently—the two of them have paused their patrol near a suit of armor worn by Abraxas the Armenian Troll-Slayer. “It’s my sister.  Her wedding’s in two weeks, on Saturday.”</p><p>“…And this is bad?”</p><p>“Well, let me put it this way.  I’ve got this awful, gaudy dress hanging in my closet at home, this disgusting pink color, and I’m all set up to floo with McGonag—”</p><p>A small, unidentifiable noise interrupts Lily’s explanation.  She pulls out her wand and motions for Remus to follow suit; he does so without question.  She can feel a shift in the drafty, old hallways, like the air has thinned, each molecule hissing and sparking, awaiting the stroke of a match.</p><p>It’s coming from her left—around the corner and into the corridor adorned with the tapestry of Helga Hufflepuff surrounded by her pet pigmies. </p><p>She whips around with a hiss: <em>“Homenum Revelio!”</em></p><p>Like a marionette, a body swings out from the hallway, arms scrambling as it’s thrown sideways and into plain view.  It’s a boy, and an angry one, whose papers are flying about from the sudden movement, bag swinging across his body like a wayward parachute.  She recognizes him immediately and is suddenly devoid of mirth.</p><p>
  <em>“Fucking hell—”</em>
</p><p>“Well,” Lily says coldly, “you’re out a bit late, then, Severus.”</p><p>If the air was hissing before, it’s practically crackling now—each atom seems stretched thin with tension, and her wand suddenly feels just the slightest bit heavier in her hand.</p><p>Severus grimaces back as he looks between her and Remus, whose eyebrows have raised toward his hairline.</p><p>“Lily.” His eyes flicker back to her face and stay there.  He doesn’t meet Remus’s eyes as he addresses him. “Lupin.”</p><p>Remus’s voice is calm and genial as he replies: “Snape.”</p><p>“Yes, fantastic,” Lily rolls her eyes, “we’ve just about done a roll call.  Now, is there anyone else you’d like to introduce yourself as, or would you just care to explain why you’re out past curfew?”</p><p>“I’m a prefect, too, Lily.  I’m allowed to be out; you can’t give me detention just for walking—”</p><p>“—<em>Lurking</em>, more like it.”</p><p>“I wasn’t talking to you, Lupin,” Severus snaps, “and don’t you have other things to worry about? Big day for you tomorrow, isn’t it?”</p><p>Remus bristles immediately.  His wand, where it was once gripped lazily between two fingers, is now clutched tightly in a white-knuckled grip.  For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Lily’s worried the two boys might start throwing hexes.</p><p>Severus’s words register belatedly in her mind.  Lily remembers all the things he used to say about Remus, all the times she shut him down.  Her blood goes cold.  <em>Is he—he wouldn’t—how</em> dare<em> he—</em></p><p>“Are you—” she’s seething; the words come out razor-thin and acidic. “Are you seriously taunting him about <em>visiting</em> <em>his</em> <em>mum?</em>” Remus turns sharply toward her.  Some of the fight leaves his posture, and his grip slowly softens on his wand.  Severus swivels his gaze back toward her, eyes wide and mouth opening to defend himself, but she cuts him off. “Merlin, Sev.  Just when I thought you couldn’t sink any lower.”</p><p>The two stare at each other for a brief moment.  Lily refuses to let her eyes drift anywhere but his own—he shan’t win anything with her, not even a staring match.  Not ever again.  She is Sixth Year Lily and he is no one—not anymore.</p><p>Finally, Severus sighs, dropping his gaze to kneel down and sweep parchment back into his arms.  She lets a breath out and feels her shoulders slump with the motion; unbeknownst to her, her posture had gone rigid at his appearance.</p><p>“Just… just get back to your Common Room, Severus.  You’re not supposed to be out right now; prefect or otherwise.”</p><p>Lily has turned to look at Remus by the time Severus finishes picking up his belongings, so she doesn’t see if he tries to catch her eye or not; she’s not actually sure which option she’d prefer.  She listens as he pauses for a moment, and then she hears footsteps tracking their way down the hallway, toward the Grand Staircase.</p><p>It dawns on her as he walks away: she’s so fucking <em>tired</em>.</p><p>He’s gone after a moment; she can almost pretend he was never there, like the interaction never happened, and he hasn’t left yet another scorch mark on what is, already, a day struck down by lightning.  Remus seems to be thinking along similar lines.</p><p>“So,” he says with a casual tone that sounds slightly strangled, “as you were saying?”</p><p>The story spills out of her before she can think of an artful way to spin it; what emerges is the clunky, stunted truth, all fragments of thoughts and unfinished clauses, each looping back on itself as if in a bid for correction, some phrases seeking absolution that others cannot give.  It takes a painful ten minutes to explain it all.  Remus, as he always does, waits patiently.</p><p>By the time they make it back to the Tower, she feels just a little bit lighter.</p><p>“Goodnight,” she bids him with a brief hug, “and… and good luck tomorrow.  With your mum, I mean.  I hope everything goes well.”</p><p>His arms are tight around her, but his grip is trembling.  He bids her goodnight and thanks her for the well-wishes before trotting nervously up to his dorm.</p><p>Lily looks up at the window of the Common Room.  Outside, the rolling hills are illuminated in cool tones by rays of moonlight, the grass set sparkling and silver where it once was green, and now, where she used to look up at the moon in childlike wonder, she stares, eyes narrow, and scorns its existence.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>There may actually be nothing worse in the universe than a four-p.m. Charms lesson on the day of a full moon, as far as Sirius Black is concerned. </p><p>He’s barely able to pay attention to Flitwick’s lesson, what with the nervous excitement shooting sparks up through his extremities.  As if to stamp them out, his leg begins to bob up and down under the table, a staccato manifestation of his bated-breath excitement.  Flitwick carries on in front of him. </p><p>“—and you’ll want to wave your wands in an <em>S</em> curve, starting from the right and ending toward the left—yes, precisely, Miss Birch! Five points to Ravenclaw!”</p><p>He turns to James, who is, as usual, sitting right next to him and looking nearly as bored as he feels. “Am I supposed to care about this?”</p><p>“Well, <em>apparently</em>,” replies James, “if you make the <em>S </em>from left to right, you’re not going to revive the person from being stunned, you might actually just make them even <em>more</em> stunned—which doesn’t really even make sense, if you ask me—” he pauses to think, “—so I guess in the grand scheme of curve-related importance, the <em>S</em> sits rather high on the list.”</p><p> Sirius blinks.  James is looking at him with a tired sort of mirth.</p><p>“You’re hilarious, Prongs.  A real comedian.”</p><p>“I try.”</p><p>“But, honestly,” Sirius pleads, “this is ridiculous.  I’m going to go absolutely spare if I have to spend another two seconds in here when we <em>should</em> be getting ready for tonight.”</p><p>James shoots him a stern look. “Would you <em>quiet down?”</em> He hisses. “We’ve got another five hours.  Keep your pants on.”</p><p>“Five <em>hours!”</em></p><p>“Mr. Black!” Flitwick’s soprano voice arrests his complaining. “I don’t suppose you’d like to provide us all a demonstration of your progress?”</p><p>He receives another look from James.</p><p><em>You’re on your own, mate,</em> it says.  Some <em>Snafool</em> he’s turning out to be.</p><p>“Why, yes, Professor!” Sirius adopts all the gallantry and nobility he can muster, waggling his eyebrows and sitting up straighter to adjust his tie with both hands—not that it was out of place to begin with. “I think I’d like that <em>very</em>much!”</p><p>What follows is not so much of an <em>S</em> curve—no mind to how dreadfully important it apparently is—and more of a helplessly distorted zigzag, so the second he mutters the incantation, a set of ancient-looking purple drapes burst into flame in the far corner of the room.  It sends a pair of Ravenclaw boys hurling themselves from their seats.</p><p>Sirius blinks at Flitwick, who’s looking at him like he’s the newest exhibit in the <em>Rare and Exotic Magical Creatures </em>museum in London.  He turns to James, who, by contrast, is grinning like his birthday and Christmas have just rolled into one and announced themselves in the midst of the lesson.  The two boys share an excited look between them: <em>well, that was certainly something.</em></p><p>The class has gone eerily silent.  From behind him, Remus lets out a defeated exhale that sounds like the final puffs of air leaving a very old, very tired balloon.  Sirius grins.</p><p>“Oops,” he says.</p><p>The fire is put out quickly by the deft charms work of Professor Flitwick, and the lesson proceeds without any further incident.  This may or may not have anything to do with the fact that he refuses Sirius any further opportunity to display his apparent ineptitude (<em>calculated</em> ineptitude, Sirius will be quick to defend); he has sequestered James and Sirius in assignment to research the history of wand-making.  A gargantuan copy of <em>A Warlock’s Guide to Wandcraft </em>has appeared on their desk to guide them.</p><p>“This is your fault,” James groans under the weight of the book as he tries to flip to a relevant page. “You couldn’t just make the stupid <em>S?”</em></p><p>Sirius feigns innocence. “Very rude of you to point out another student’s difficulties, Prongs.  Not all of us are so naturally gifted in the world of academia.”</p><p>“Fuck off and help me find the chapter on Unicorn hair.”</p><p>That—as it were—settles that.</p><p>The hours after Charms drag on painfully, each one seeing Sirius more wired than the last.  Dinner is a quick affair of shoving item after item into his mouth for energy—he ignores the disgusted looks sent his way by Mary and Marlene, and he’s largely unable to contribute helpfully to James’s conversation with Enora about the upcoming pre-playoff Quidditch practices.  He hears the term “two-a-day” and is appropriately dismayed; but it’s only a momentary distraction.</p><p>He doesn’t know how the other three do it. </p><p>Remus, specifically, has always been a mystery to him in this way; they’ve all carried their respective wounds to the halls of Hogwarts—some more than others—but Remus’s scars line his body like a patchwork quilt, some fresher on his face, and others, nearly ten years old, still etched like hieroglyphs into his torso.  Sometimes Sirius wonders how he carries it all around.</p><p>He remembers being in first year and seeing them for the first time; how he’d told Remus how cool he looked, that he wished he had battle scars like that, so people would know how tough he was.  He remembers the horror that overtook Remus’s face, and then the subsequent fear that he’d said something wrong.  He remembers James (because when the day needed saving it was always, always James), stock-straight and guileless, throwing an arm around each of them and telling them that they’d be able to get a whole new set of girl-magnet scars if they joined the Quidditch team with him.</p><p>He just can’t believe that the other three don’t feel the buzzing—the synergistic, vibrant hum—between them, like a little pocket of the world dictated not by magic, per se, but something more ancient, more archaic, an old-world spirit that entered their train car that day in September 1971, and has since hung-on, unfailing, like a golden thread tethering the four boys together.</p><p>The Fulls are the apex of it all.  The Fulls are when they transcend.  The Fulls are freedom; are liberation; are brotherhood.</p><p>He doesn’t know how they aren’t set to explode like he is.</p><p>At quarter-past seven, Remus bids them all goodnight and gets up to go to the Hospital Wing as usual.  He proceeds as he always does: calmly, yet with the barest hint of trepidation, his feet stuttering back and forth toward the door, as if considering—as he’s done every time before—whether to tell them not to come, to just let him deal with the Full on his own.</p><p>Sirius—as he always will—shoves him through the portrait hole before he can get the words out.</p><p>That’s the thing about that little golden thread—they’re tangled in it now, each Marauder stitched into its weave, its hold too tight to release them.  As far as he’s concerned, none of them will ever go through anything on their own ever again.</p><p>“Three hours and counting,” he calls to James with a grin.  Peter’s dozed off in his bed, his usual pre-Full nap.</p><p>James shoots Sirius a grin right back.  In his eyes, a reflection of the ingenuous excitement that Sirius feels.  In his smile, a harbinger of mischief and mayhem to come.</p><p>“Three hours and counting,” James calls back.</p><p>*       *       *</p><p>Sirius prefers cold weather.  He likes the feeling of snowflakes on bare skin, watching them melt into drops of dew that mingle with the hairs on his arms, understanding that to feel cold on the surface of his skin means that there must be something warm and living underneath.</p><p>Sometimes, if James or Remus isn’t around to stop him, he’ll walk the grounds in a thin, breezy long-sleeved shirt, cataloguing the goosebumps that raise across his stomach as wind whispers into the tiny holes in the stitching of the fabric.  Sometimes he stays out until his eyes begin to water; only returning to the tower once he can no longer feel his fingers as they furl and unfurl around his wand. </p><p>James will always roll his eyes and pitch a scarf or hat in his direction. Remus, almost like clockwork, gives him a panicked look and goes so far as to summon a cup of tea—which comes clattering up from the Common Room and nearly spills along the staircase—to warm him up.</p><p>Sirius always grins and takes it with a laugh; he is unperturbed by their reactions.  They know enough about him to understand that sometimes, be it sensical or not, he just sort of <em>does things like this</em>.</p><p>He’s never explained it to them. </p><p>His affection for cold weather feels like something he wants to keep tucked under his four-poster and hidden from the world, right next to the forgotten textbooks and the tiny, stuffed kneazle that sits delicately within an arm’s reach if he were to lean over the side of his bed and grasp for it. It’s a little secret, one inconsequential and harmless, but he keeps it to himself regardless.</p><p>It’s pretty cold out, now, in the damp morning hours before the sun’s fully risen.  His chest is heaving with thick, freezing breaths that appear above him like clouds of wispy smoke—as he lies on the damp grass only a few yards away from the Forbidden Forest, his muscles screaming from exhaustion, he thinks he might be able to take over the world one day.</p><p>“Alright over there, Padfoot?” James’s voice rises over a small hill.  He’s the one who stashed the extra clothes, so as he emerges, Sirius notes that he’s already dressed. </p><p>“Copacetic,” Sirius grins back.  He’s unabashed in his own nudity; he rests on shaky elbows and elaborates thoughtfully, “could use a fag, though.”</p><p>“Just put the bloody clothes on, you hippie.”</p><p>A cloth sack hits him in the chest.  James has packed him a pair of his pants, dark corduroy trousers, and a thick, cable-knit jumper with his socks and shoes.  He begins to stuff his legs into the pair of boxers—each leg protests tiredly at the movement.</p><p>“Cheers, Prongsie!”</p><p>Peter, too, is dressed by the time Sirius makes his way over the small hill.  It’s just Remus who has to make the trip to the Shack still starkers, and Sirius grimaces in sympathy as he shivers noticeably under the thin cloak James has draped him in.  It’s all in pursuit of the ruse; if he were to appear fully-dressed and sorted on the creaky cot they’ve set him up with in the Shack, Poppy would know something’s afoot.</p><p>“Alright, Moony?” He asks as he throws the other boy’s arm over his own shoulder.  Remus will never outright ask for help; it’s better just to read his face for pain and act accordingly while he’s too tired to object.</p><p>Remus sends him an exhausted smile.  Sirius thinks he looks far too pale, and he briefly wishes he could tell Poppy so himself without giving up the game.</p><p>“Brilliant,” he replies tiredly.  On a cursory scan, Sirius can’t find anything too wrong with him—no significant scrapes or bruises.  It feels like a victory.</p><p>“I’m alright, too, if it matters at all to anyone.”</p><p>“Oh, stuff it, Wormtail.”</p><p>They deposit Remus on the bed of the Shrieking Shack and bid him farewell, each promising to visit under the Cloak as soon as they can.  Remus waves them off dozily; under the meagre blankets adorning the bed, he looks ready to fall right asleep.  The lines of worry on his face are temporarily smoothed out.</p><p>“Well, fellas,” James sighs as they trod back toward the castle.  His face is just barely illuminated by the glow of a lantern in the tunnel. “Another successful Full in the books.”</p><p>“I’m fucking shattered,” Peter yawns.</p><p>Sirius can’t help but agree.  As they make their way through the tunnel, he can feel the ache of fatigue seeping into his bones like a heavy cloak, impeding his movements, turning his steady steps into a sluggish sort of plod.  He can envision his bed; warm, maroon blankets and the softness of a goose-feather pillow—</p><p>His musings are interrupted by a set of voices that grow louder as the boys approach the tunnel’s exit.  They all tense, sharing a panicked look between them: <em>is there someone in here?</em></p><p>James snuffs out the lantern.  Sirius hisses a quiet <em>“wait here”</em> before creeping slowly forward in the abject darkness of the unlit path.  As he makes his way toward the entrance, he’s relieved to hear that the voices in fact aren’t coming from the tunnel, but rather slowly making their way past it.</p><p>All relief vanishes in an instant when he’s close enough to hear them properly.</p><p>“—paper, Severus.  I don’t want to have to tell you again.”</p><p>“I’d worry about yourself and stop this preoccupation with my work if I were you, Antony.”</p><p>Sirius nearly groans out loud. <em> Mulciber and Snivellus.  Fucking fantastic.</em></p><p>He treads carefully back to where James and Peter are waiting.  He can hear Peter’s panicked breaths leaving him in short huffs; he can sense James’s rigidity from meters away.</p><p>“Mulciber and Snape,” he whispers.  They both groan in annoyance—he can’t blame them. “Good news is they’re about to turn the corridor.  Should be all set to leave in a minute or two.”</p><p>“Of all the gits to run into…” James sighs.</p><p>Peter sounds like he could cry. “What are they even doing <em>awake?”</em></p><p>“Could ask us the same question, I suppose.”</p><p>“Yeah, but our answers don’t include sacrificing rabbits to our evil overlord.”</p><p>“Is <em>that</em> what they’re doing?!”</p><p>“Figure of speech, Wormtail.  For Merlin’s sake.”</p><p>The three boys decide to make their way, once again, toward the castle entrance, taking special heed to avoid pressing the back of the portrait for fear of opening the secret door too soon.  They can hear short snippets of the still-moving conversation happening outside.  Sirius is very close to cracking a joke—<em>a galleon to whoever jumps out and yells, “boo!” </em>or <em>think they’re on their way to a broom cupboard for a steamy rendezvous?</em>—when Mulbiber asks a question that sends his speech—and his blood—to a screeching halt.</p><p>“And what do <em>you</em> think, Regulus?”</p><p>
  <em>Regulus with Mulciber.  Regulus with Snape.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Regulus.  Regulus.  Regulus.</em>
</p><p>The sleepy satisfaction from the Full dissipates from Sirius’s body like smoke curling toward the sky.  He squares his shoulders, ignoring the pleading hand James places on his arm to keep him still, and pushes the portrait open to step forward into the soft light of the hallway.  He can hear James and Peter scrambling after him; they’ve barely caught up by the time he turns the corner to face the three Slytherin boys.</p><p>“Well, Reggie,” he drawls, “I see you’re playing well with the toys Mummy and Daddy picked out for you.”</p><p>All three heads whip around to face the intrusion.  Two wear matching expressions that border between amusement and contempt; one won’t even stand up straight enough to meet his eyes.</p><p>“Well, well, well!” Mulciber smiles crookedly, like a fox who’s spotted unsuspecting prey.  It’s such a typically arrogant misreading of the situation that Sirius almost wants to laugh. “If it isn’t the <em>Black sheep!”</em></p><p>“Oh, that is so <em>very</em> clever, Antony! Now, tell me—did it take the entire Slytherin brain-trust to give life to such a brilliant nickname, or did you and Avery just rub your heads together until sparks started to fly?”</p><p>“Shut <em>up</em>, you little—”</p><p>Snape cuts Mulciber off with a hard look.  Sirius hasn’t once taken his eyes off of Regulus, who looks like he’d be happy to have the floor open up and swallow him.</p><p>“You’ve got no business with us, Black.  We’ve only need for one Black brother; and the spot’s been filled.”</p><p>Snape puts a hand on Regulus’s shoulder—it’s a twisted perversion of a familial gesture.  Sirius wants to rip it off of his brother and bend it backwards until he hears a <em>snap</em>.</p><p>“Gods, Snivellus,” he snarls, “make it more obvious how desperate you are to be a Black.  If you’re thinking of marriage, I’m sure we’ve got a few house-elves who might be able to stand the sight of your pale arse.”</p><p>There’s a flurry of movement from both sides: Snape lunges forward, wand drawn, at the same time as Sirius—though they’re both held back, the space between them is crowded by suffocating hostility, and the temperature of the hallway seems to lower with the lagging breeze of stunted motion.</p><p>“Don’t, Sirius.” James’s voice is a low hiss in his ear.  He strains against his hold, eager to fight, chomping at the bit to give Snape a reason to fire the first hex. “Remember what Remus says—keep it in check, mate.  Don’t let them see you angry.  <em>They’re not worth it.</em>”</p><p>He blinks once, and the world shifts.</p><p>Very suddenly, the hallway isn’t the first floor but outside the portrait hole, and Snape stands in front of him, spewing vitriol, taunting him about James and Remus and Regulus and anything else he can think of.  Sirius hears himself saying <em>why don’t you check the Womping Willow and find out, then</em> before he can bite his tongue to keep the words inside, and he’s ruined everything, all of it, he’s poisoned the only thing that makes him feel safe, Remus is going to hate him for the rest of their lives—</p><p>
  <em>“Sirius.”</em>
</p><p>James’s voice pulls him out of it.  He watches as Mulciber drags Snape away, throwing some insult or another over his shoulder with a scathing look and hard shrug of shoulders, and in the next beat, the only one left is Regulus.</p><p>Sirius’s little brother looks smaller than he remembers.  His eyes are sunken in; the skin around his mouth is smooth and marbled, like he’s forgotten how to smile.  Sirius can’t decide if he wants to box him round the ears—<em>what are you doing, why are you doing this to me—</em>or shake him by the shoulders and drag him out of the castle for good.  He still won’t meet Sirius’s eyes.</p><p>“Reg—”</p><p>“Filch was making rounds earlier.” His voice is flat, hoarse; Sirius wonders if one of the things the Death Eaters take is the ability inject emotion into speech. “He’ll be back in a few minutes, so you should leave soon.”</p><p>Regulus walks away briskly and without another word, following the path that Snape and Mulciber have just taken.  His footsteps barely register on the stone, even in his school shoes; it’s like he’s not even there.</p><p>“C’mon,” ushers James to Sirius and Peter, who’s been standing nervously behind them this whole time, “let’s get back—”</p><p>Sirius cuts him off. “You two go on.  I need a walk outside.” He leaves before James can object.</p><p>Regulus didn’t look at him once.</p><p>*       *       *</p><p>One of the fundamental characteristics of energy is that is needs some sort of outlet.  Energy doesn’t just disappear; this is one of the few things that muggles and magicfolk can agree upon.  Energy stores can build, of course, when introduced to new environments and stimuli, but there’s no way to just make it all go away—no matter how much you want it to.  It has to go somewhere; it has to move.</p><p>Magic pulls from natural energy in this way, taking the low thrum that pulses through a person’s veins and shooting it out into the universe through their wand; it breathes in the buzzes and the hums that wax and wane, it illuminates the dormant sparks that surround every magical being, and it gives them voice and purpose and reason.</p><p>Some energies don’t find their outlet in magic.  Some energies are entirely too <em>human</em>, too entrenched in the brain and the body to make their way to a wand.  Some energies require entirely non-magical channels.</p><p>Sirius is familiar with all types of energies.  He’s been a vessel for every kind, and he’s categorized each one with a scrupulous eye as he’s gotten older: which ones he could exert with his parents’ approval, which ones would see him limping back to his bedroom, calves stinging, and arms littered with fresh cuts.  Which ones can make people laugh; which ones can make them cry.</p><p>His walk around the school grounds, back through the tunnel and nearly to the Forbidden Forest, quells the release of <em>something</em>, but there’s still this ache—this angry, hissing pain—that sits uncomfortably, restlessly, in his bones. </p><p><em>Remember what Remus says, </em>he hears James’s voice in his mind like a dull echo, <em>keep it in check.  Don’t let them see you angry</em>.</p><p>The burn of embarrassment, which stung so freshly when James first spoke the words aloud, rears back into his system.  It’s a rush of heat that crawls from his sternum up to his face like the licking tendrils of a creeping fire.  He wonders if he’ll ever be able to stop disappointing him.  He wonders if he’ll ever be able to stop the rush of impulsivity born from years and years of childhood repression.</p><p>The Shrieking Shack sits ominously to his left as he makes his way back toward the school gates.  Remus will have been picked up already, he knows, and walked slowly back toward the Hospital Wing to rest until tomorrow.  He’ll be complaining that it’s too long to rest—but he’ll sleep the day away, nonetheless.</p><p>Even devoid of the Map or the Cloak, it’s not terribly difficult for Sirius to make his way through the castle unnoticed.  It’s just about eight-a.m. now, and most the castle is still asleep, all eager for a lie-in on a cool Saturday morning.  If he didn’t have so much adrenalin in his system, he’d probably be joining them.</p><p>A quick stop at the kitchens is the only thing that delays him from getting back to the Common Room.  The house-elves are excited to see him, and he makes his way with a bundle of sweets he hadn’t even asked for.  He steps through the portrait, expecting to greet an empty room and a crackling fire.</p><p>“Up early, Black.”</p><p>The voice of Marlene McKinnon startles him nearly into dropping his spoils; he recovers quickly, a grin growing on his face as he moves to where she’s seated.  She takes up an entire sofa, long legs splayed out in muggle jeans. </p><p>“Ditto, McKinnon.”</p><p>Marlene gestures to the book in her lap.  “At least I’ve got an excuse—Charms practical coming up.” She takes in the pastries spilling out from his grip. “And <em>you?</em> Stealing food from mysterious origins, I see?”</p><p>“Trade secret, I’m afraid,” he smiles, “I’d have to kill you.”</p><p>“Pity.  Well, you could at least hand one over for my secrecy.”</p><p>“A fair deal.”</p><p>Sirius hands her a small chocolate cupcake, and she swipes a bit of frosting from the top with her finger before licking it off with a <em>pop</em>.  His eyes trace the way her lips form a small <em>O</em> around the digit.</p><p>He’s always liked the banter he has with Marlene.  She’s never taken herself too seriously, and, by extension, never taken <em>him</em> too seriously, always chiming in with a joke or a smirk to bring levity where none previously existed.</p><p>“D’you mind if I sit?” He gestures to the space where her legs currently lie, and she nods, making to pull them back to tuck them under herself.  Sirius makes a quick decision—another impulse.  He wonders if he should start a tally for the day.</p><p>He pulls her feet back to rest over his lap and traces his fingers absently over her bare ankles.  Marlene’s eyebrows quirk.  It’s a silent question, easily read: <em>do you know what you’re doing?</em> </p><p>Sirius smirks right back.  <em>I damned well hope so.</em></p><p>“You know,” he begins, “I’ve always thought you were quite fit, McKinnon.”</p><p>Marlene’s tone, even without any words, is impressively skeptical. “Mm-<em>hm.</em>”</p><p>“And I have it on good authority that I’m rather fit as well.”</p><p>“Oh, do you, now?”</p><p>“Yes.  The point being—”</p><p>“—oh, I can’t <em>wait</em> for this—”</p><p>“—the point <em>being</em>, I’ve heard tell that if two people are both impressively fit, it’s customary for them to, well—"</p><p>“Meet up in a broom cupboard?”</p><p>“I knew you’d understand.  Quite alike, we are.”</p><p>She still looks skeptical.  For a moment, he’s hit with a cold thrill of nervousness, and he can't help but glance away from her piercing look, afraid it might break his cool façade.  But he remembers the words spoken just hours prior: <em>d</em><em>on’t let them see you angry</em>.</p><p>This, he’s certain at least, is not anger.</p><p>As he reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair from Marlene’s cheek, watching how her eyes trace the movement—suspicious, but with the barest hint of excitement—he can’t help but feel like he’s putting a tourniquet on a poisoned wound.</p><p>He wants to do it anyway.</p><p>“So, what do you say, McKinnon?” he sends her a long-practiced smirk; she shoots him one back in response, all white teeth and full lips. “Fancy a trip to a broom cupboard <em>avec</em> <em>moi?”</em></p><p>Marlene makes a show of thinking it over, but her legs haven’t moved from his lap.  “I <em>suppose</em> I could take a quick study break.”</p><p>“Who said anything about ‘quick’?”</p><p>“You’re funny,” she quips as she places her Charms textbook on the small coffee table nearby, “funny’s good.  I don’t really do serious.”</p><p>Sirius waggles his eyebrows. “Hate to break it to you, but I think you’re about to.”</p><p>The eyeroll he receives in responses dissipates just the slightest bit of tension from his shoulders.</p><p>“You’re insufferable,” she says.</p><p>Sirius grabs her hand and pulls her up off the couch, making his way toward the portrait hole.  Marlene is chuckling behind him.</p><p>“Try not to fall in love with me, darling,” is all he replies.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>The night after a full moon tends to be one of those times when James Potter can bask in the vibrant colors of being a wizard.</p><p>It’s all he’s ever known, really; his childhood was spent playing Quidditch and watching his mother and father pepper spells and enchantments throughout even the most mundane of days.  Magic is his first language.  It’s the heady undercurrent that sings in his veins, spiraling up his arms and legs like ivy on ancient stone.</p><p>Magic is omnipresent.  Post-adolescence, though, is the flavor of the season.</p><p>There’s just something wonderfully ridiculous about fretting over homework and girls only twenty-four hours after transforming into a stag to run wild across rolling hills and babbling streams.  He’s pointed it out to the boys before as they pour over textbooks in the Hospital Wing, as three of them simultaneously unsubtly peer across to watch the moon drain itself from Remus’s complexion.</p><p>Fulls that fall on weekends are—blessedly—a little different. </p><p>The entire day is an ode to lethargy.  An insistent need for sleep sees himself, Sirius, and Peter missing dinner in favor of a much-needed, multi-hour nap, only getting up intermittently for glasses or water or a trip to the loo.  Remus isn’t due back in the dormitory until the following day—it’s a weekend, and the story goes that he’s visiting his mum, so Poppy has unilateral reign on the longevity of his stay in the Wing.  It’s a rare day of reprieve for the usually active group.</p><p>Sirius arrived back to the dorm a little past half-ten in the morning; he was flushed, but grinning, any traces of the confrontation with the Slytherins all but gone from his face.  James chose not to ask why his jumper was on backwards.  He just rolled his eyes as the other boy made for the shower.</p><p>It’s quarter to ten p.m., now, and the sound of stomachs grumbling is only partially drowned out by the argument James is currently engaged in with Sirius.  They’re each sitting on their respective beds; both are waving arms about in righteous indignation.</p><p>Some of their fights, he’ll be the first to admit, are a bit stupid.  This one is especially so.</p><p>“I cannot be<em>lieve</em> you jelly-leg jinxed Avery without me.”</p><p>“Padfoot—”</p><p>“—Can’t believe it!” Sirius cries. “This is madness! And you call yourself a <em>Marauder?</em>”</p><p>“Padfoot, it was weeks ago.  You weren’t even <em>there</em>—”</p><p>“No! This is too much.  I’m unspeakably offended.”</p><p>“No, you’re not.”</p><p>“You can’t tell me when I’m offended and when I’m not.”</p><p>“No—I mean you’re not <em>unspeakably</em> offended.  We’re literally speaking about it right now.”</p><p>“…Semantics.”</p><p>“That’s not how you use <em>semantics</em>.”</p><p>“Leave my presence, you charlatan! And get us food! Serve your penance!”</p><p>And thus, James is set off with the explicit instructions not to return <em>upon pain of death </em>until he’s laden with enough food to make up for his clear disrespect, which he assumes to mean some pumpkin pasties and enough sandwiches to spare at least one as ammunition to throw at Sirius’s face.</p><p>The walk to the kitchens is quiet under the Cloak; sometimes he forgets just how eerie the castle can be.  In the late hours, soft bursts of light filter through the stained-glass windows and cast rays of color onto a smattering of ancient stone.  Tiny galaxies of rich, swirling hues alight the castle with an otherworldly glow.  It's a small comfort as he wanders along, the hallways feeling too spacious to be comfortable.  </p><p>Even with the Map sitting in his back pocket, James feels cagey and on-edge; he’s not used to walking the halls alone, or at least not without other students lining every spare meter.  He picks up his pace.</p><p>“Master Potter!” A house-elf named Betty chirps brightly after he tickles the pear and steps through the kitchen's entrance. “What can we get you?”</p><p>“Hi, Betty,” he smiles, “I’ll just—”</p><p>A small commotion to his right cuts him off; as he turns, he sees about five or six elves huddled together, their respective cleaning tasks carrying on obliviously without them as they surround a small figure—the small figure, he realizes, who let out the tiny wail that caught his attention.</p><p>“I don’t<em> know!”</em> the little thing—another elf, though he can’t remember its name—cries. “Miffy can’t remember! Stop asking Miffy the same question!”</p><p><em>Miffy</em>.  He walks over to the small group, his order forgotten.  “Everything alright?”</p><p>He’s accosted with pleadings and placations, each elf spouting something to the tune of “Everything’s fine!” and “Don’t Master Potter worry about anything!” as they wave their arms about, seemingly embarrassed for him to witness such a moment.  No less than ten wide, panicked eyes stare up at him as he stumbles backward.</p><p>“Er…okay, then?”</p><p>He looks toward Miffy.  She’s sitting on a small, elf-sized stool, shaking like a leaf with her arms huddled around herself, fingers clutching her arms in a vicelike grip.  He starts forward again as more questions form on his lips.</p><p>A tug on the leg of his trousers pulls his attention away.  Betty’s looking up at him, nearly dragging him back to the entrance to the kitchens, grip surprisingly fierce for a creature so small. “It’s nothing, Master Potter,” she says, “Betty doesn’t want Master Potter to worry.”</p><p>“Do you know what’s going on, Betty?”</p><p>Betty huffs out a breath. “Nothing Master Potter need think about.  Betty couldn’t find Miffy for a few hours, is all, but she’s back now…”</p><p>James isn’t entirely convinced, but Betty makes a show of arranging a basket full of exquisite-looking foods for him, little sandwiches and tarts and even a bowl of mashed potatoes that sets his mouth watering, and he can’t help but abide by the grumbling beast that’s overtaken his stomach.</p><p>He’s shooed out before he can spare the strange sight another thought.</p><p>*       *       *</p><p>It becomes immediately apparent upon entering the Common Room that the universe has lined up a slew of obstacles for James’s day, each one apparently weirder and more befuddling than the last.  If he thought the encounter with the Slytherin boys or even the unusual behavior of the house-elves was unnerving... <em>well.</em></p><p>The universe is a tricky mistress.</p><p>He pulled off the Cloak outside to give the password, which nearly sent the Fat Lady into hysterics, so now he stands, arms full of delicious food, in the warm silence of Gryffindor’s home.  He lets out a contented sigh.</p><p>The Common Room is empty, as expected.  The crackling fire provides the only light or noise to interrupt the darkness of the late evening.</p><p>“A-<em>choo!”</em></p><p>A small correction: the Common Room is not empty.</p><p><em>“Who—?!"</em> James whips around as his heart tap-dances ruthlessly in his chest.  Whoever it is, he’s going to give them a piece of his mind for just sitting there in the darkness like a crazy person, lying in wait for unsuspecting students to nearly hurtle perfectly good confections at them like sugary projectiles.</p><p>“Sorry about that,” says a small voice, and James is no longer concerned about his pastries, because <em>there is absolutely no way this is who he thinks it is</em>.  He squints at an extremely poorly lit corner of the room, almost afraid to confirm his suspicions.</p><p>He takes a step forward.  He’s correct.</p><p>Lily Evans is sitting alone in the Common Room at—he checks the clock—ten-seventeen p.m., with what sounds like some sort of small bout of hay fever.  She sniffles.</p><p>“S’alright,” he says in what is very much not a casual tone, “you didn’t scare me.”</p><p>“Yes, I did,” she replies, “you screamed.”</p><p>“No, I didn’t.”</p><p>“You did, though—I heard you.”</p><p>“My word against yours, I’m afraid.”</p><p>They lapse into awkward silence; James carrying a basket full of food, Lily sitting in the dark.  It’s a less-than-ideal scenario for a one-on-one conversation with the girl he’s been in love with for four years. </p><p>He’s about to turn and leave, because at least he hasn’t said anything stupid this time, when a little sound arrests his movement.  It’s quiet and choked, like she tried to stifle it, but he’d recognize it anywhere.  She made a similar one in June of last year.</p><p>It’s a sob.</p><p>
  <em>Is she…crying?</em>
</p><p>He hears a sigh and then a lamp flicks on next to her, illuminating her face in an orange glow.  Her eyes are red and filled with moisture; her face is splotchy.  It’s something he never wanted to see again, and yet, here she is.  James’s heart throbs painfully against his ribcage.</p><p>“Yes, I am.”</p><p>
  <em>Did he say that out loud?</em>
</p><p>“Yes, you did—and I’d caution you against thinking anything particularly rude at the moment, because apparently there’s no filtering mechanism between your brain and your mouth.”</p><p>“Noted.”</p><p>He’s very careful not to speak his thoughts aloud, in fact, because most of them sound something like <em>who did this to you </em>and <em>please don’t let this be because of me </em>and, most prominently, <em>I really, really hate seeing you cry</em>.</p><p>Lily breaks the silence that has filled the room. “And don’t worry, this isn’t about Severus—you can swallow whatever lecture you’ve got planned about that.”</p><p>James doesn’t miss the bite in her tone, nor does he begrudge her for it; the two of them have been on shaky ground at best since the Dining Hall Episode of Last Saturday, and he’s been waiting to feel the repercussions ever since.</p><p>“Didn’t think you were,” he says bluntly, “and it’s not my place to criticize, anyway.”</p><p>This particular point has been drilled into him by Remus almost every night since The Episode.  <em>She was friends with him for years, </em>he’d say, <em>and now he sidles up to people who want to kill her.  It’s… complex.</em></p><p>James hates <em>complex</em>.  He wants to take <em>complex</em> and bash it with his broomstick until it’s nothing but a mangled heap at his feet, and Lily understands that she doesn’t have to spend any time worrying for people who hate her, and Snape leaves her alone for good.  <em>Complex</em> is unbearable.  <em>Complex</em> is a luxury he’s not sure they’re going to have when they leave Hogwarts and enter the fray.</p><p>Lily gazes at him warily. </p><p>Since his crush on her bloomed in the winter of Second Year, he’s always loved it when she looks at him; he used to spend entire lesson periods seeking it out, trying to draw her eye, desperate for a glimmer of her focus to send tingles of satisfaction shooting through his extremities.  </p><p>It was only after The Incident that he went through a brief period of shying away from her attention, afraid that—after everything he’d done—each time she paid him mind was another opportunity for him to fail her like he had in June. </p><p>He’d rather not have her gaze at all than have it be so painfully distrusting.</p><p>“Right,” she says dubiously. “It’s not.”</p><p>“So—” he clears his throat, which is suddenly dry.  Has he had enough water today? “—What’s got you upset? Family troubles? Er… boy troubles?”</p><p>Somewhere in Britain, members of the Wizengamot are probably careening themselves off of cliffs and weeping into their handkerchiefs, staring at a “wanted” poster with his name and face splayed out on across the paper. <em> He asked about boys,</em> they’re crying, <em>the stupid bloody idiot asked about boys! Prepare the Dementors!</em></p><p>Lily’s still-red eyes narrow slightly.  In his mind’s eye, he sees an ancient-looking sorcerer in dark green robes let out a wail of despair. <em> He did it while she was crying! To Azkaban with him!</em></p><p>“Family troubles,” she murmurs slowly; deliberately.  He hears hesitation color every syllable of the words, like she’s deciding if he deserves to hear them right up until the very moment they leave her lips. “It’s… it’s my sister.”</p><p>James remembers seeing Lily’s sister only once, when they were coming off of the train from second year.  The other girl was blonde and sharp-looking, even in her youth; her eyes cut across the scene of the platform with undeniable disdain.  She’d given Lily a grudging hug before dragging her out by the hand with their parents in tow.  He’d never seen someone look so professionally displeased at such a tender age.</p><p>He decides not to voice this aloud.</p><p>“Ah,” he says, “is she… alright?”</p><p>To his surprise, she barks out a laugh.  It’s not her normal laugh; it’s harsh and sardonic, and he waits to hear what irony has befallen his question. “Physically? She’s grand.  She and her fiancé are getting married in two weeks.”</p><p>“And this is…not good?”</p><p>His questions are banal at best, mere prompts for whatever story she’s so reticent to tell, but he’ll say anything to keep her talking.  Talking is not ignoring.  Talking is progress.</p><p>Lily’s expression shifts into what he can only describe as a mockery of contemplation. “Well, I suppose it would be, if I were allowed to go.”</p><p>Now <em>this</em> catches him off-guard. “You—<em>what?”</em></p><p>“I’ve been uninvited.  She doesn’t want the family freak-show stealing all the attention, apparently.”</p><p>“Well, that’s just bullshit.”</p><p>Lily blinks up at him, surprised.  He’d been unable to stop the words from coming out before he could think better of them.  It was something about the way her face had fallen, the way her eyes—normally such a bright, emerald green—had dulled into a sad, earthy hue, something darker and more muted than befit her face. </p><p>James stands before her in the wake of the statement, shoulders shrugged and arms still laden with food from the kitchens, and he finds he doesn’t regret the words at all.</p><p>He plows on. “I mean it—it’s bullshit.  And she clearly isn’t worth your time, if she can conjure up such nonsense about you.  <em>Freak-show.</em>  Fucking hell.”</p><p>“It’s not that simple, James.  She’s family.”</p><p>
  <em>It’s not that simple, James.</em>
</p><p><em>James.</em> </p><p>Even said so softly, probably unconscious that she’d even let it slip out by mistake, James wants to hear his name from her lips like that over and over and over.  It wasn’t preceded by “I hate you,” or “go to hell,” it was just… <em>James</em>.</p><p>Something foreign swirls in his esophagus.  He thinks it might be hope.</p><p>After she’s spoken, it dawns on James that he’s heard something like this before—the words are a little different, yes, but the tone is almost staggeringly reminiscent. “You know,” he says, “you’re a lot more like Sirius than either of you think.”</p><p>Whatever Lily was expecting, it clearly isn’t this: her eyebrows furrow and she scans his face, probably assuming he’s about to make a joke.  Curiosity and incredulity seem to be warring across the landscape of her features.</p><p>“I’m sorry… <em>what?”</em></p><p>James sets the food down on a nearby chair before walking to stand only a few feet away from her.  It’s the most direct he’s addressed her in months—at least, without their friends around—and every step feels heavier as he approaches. </p><p>He wonders if that is his body telling him not to continue forward, or maybe, like a muscle memory too deeply ingrained to identify, it knows that once he’s close to her, he'll be tempted never to leave.  Maybe his body knows that he'll find no better place than that where he can feel the ghost of her breaths on his face.  He’s a moth to her flame; he’s a willing hostage.</p><p><em>It’s not that simple, James</em>. </p><p>He takes another step.  She follows his progress with wary eyes.</p><p>“Sirius does this thing, when he talks about his family, where he just rages and rages like they’re the most infuriating topic in the world.”  James sees her begin to object; probably something along the lines of <em>well, aren’t they? </em>or <em>what does this have to do with me?</em> “But it’s all this bluster and performance, with Sirius—he fixates so much on his anger because… well, because he’s afraid that if he doesn’t, he’ll have to realize how sad he is.  How much he misses them.”</p><p>Lily’s breath hitches ever-so-slightly—like it’s been seized from her chest.  James continues, just a little bit softer.  He takes in the contours of her features as he opens his mouth to speak, the high curve of her cheekbones, the slight parting of her lips, the way her chin tilts upward as she listens.  He catalogues her closeness like a man on the verge of losing his sight.  Like she’s the final dip of the sun over the crest of the horizon. “You’re sort of the opposite, I think.  You’re letting yourself be sad because you don’t want to think about how angry it makes you.”</p><p>He pauses to let the words sink in and averts his gaze from her in favor of staring at the fireplace. “…Because if you’re angry at her, it makes it real.”</p><p>Her eyes are watery again when he looks back, but she nods like she wants him to continue.  James has to think for a moment of what he wants to say—there are a thousand things he wants to tell her, of course, and about nine hundred of them are probably things she doesn't want to know.  He settles somewhere that feels only slightly uncomfortable.</p><p>“Look,” he sighs, “you and I are really different.  We see things…differently, I know that.  But sometimes—well, sometimes people are just bad.  And it has nothing to do with you.”</p><p>“I think you’ve got me on a bit of a pedestal, Potter,” she says wryly, and he has to keep himself from correcting her: <em>it should be James, now—you just said it before,</em> “I’m not a perfect person.”</p><p>He doesn’t hesitate to respond: “I don’t think that.” It’s true—she can be judgmental, and confrontational, and Merlin knows she forgives too easily.  “I just think the good outweighs the bad.”</p><p>It might be a slip on his part; he might be showing just a little too much of his hand, putting a shade too much on display.  But he can’t just sit here and let her believe what her sister told her.  Not Lily, who’s kind, and smart, and generous, who wants to see the best in people, even when they fail her.  Not Lily, who’s had his heart in her hands since they were twelve years old.</p><p><em>The good outweighs the bad</em> is a vast understatement, as far as James is concerned.  But it’ll do for now.</p><p>She ponders the statement for a while—almost enough time to make him think he should leave her to her solitude.  But, before he can, she leans forward with a ghost of a grin playing at her lips, propping her chin on her hands as if to study him closely.  Her eyes are still red-rimmed, but no new moisture pools at the corners; she’s recovered from crying in mere minutes.  He hates to think that she’s had to train herself to master the skill.</p><p>“Some people are just bad, huh?” Her voice has regained a little strength to accompany its humor, and he’s glad for it. “And what do you suppose you are?”</p><p>James thinks on this for a moment.  He tucks his hands into his trouser pockets, shifting from foot to foot, and sees her eyeing the small movement. “I hope I’m a good person,” he says, and he desperately wants her to know he means it, “but I guess…I guess you could say I’m working on it.”</p><p>Lily gives him her first genuine smile of the evening—and, if he thinks about it, possibly of the year.  Possibly of their lives.  He revels in it.</p><p>“Working on it.” She tries the words out, stretching them, seeing how they fit.  She leans back in deliberation. “I like that, I think. I guess you could say I’m working on it, too.”</p><p>They share a moment of quiet eye contact before the sound of a log splintering in the fire interrupts the silence.</p><p>James turns to fetch the basket of food, decides to follow the path back to the stairs that lead to his dorm.  The conversation’s come to a natural end, and he doesn’t want to force his company on her for any longer than she wants it.</p><p>He pauses at the foot of the stairs. “Goodnight,” he calls.</p><p>Lily looks up at him, a few strands of hair falling forward from behind her shoulders to sway at the sides of her face.  He wants to think that she’s looking at him differently; it might just be the way the nighttime shadows fall on the green of her eyes.</p><p>“Goodnight,” she says softly.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you for reading! I know things are still a bit slow, but don't worry, we're about to gear up...</p><p>also, to all my wolfstar friends: don't kill me! there is significance in all of this, I swear, and I promise you wolfstar shall have its prevailing moment... please be patient! and yes, lily is kinda goin' through it in the first few chapters, but fear not! she shall recover and be the badass we all know her to be soon enough. this is not going to be a woe-is-lily-evans story.</p><p>please leave a comment! let me know what you think! and, as always, come say hi on my Tumblr! @clare-with-no-i</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Paths We Choose</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An unwelcome encounter occurs in the library.  Hogwarts is rocked to its core by an attack on the students.  James regresses into some old ways.  A new, exciting opportunity emerges in the wake of tragedy.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello, my loves~</p><p>This one's intense.  There is some decided unpleasantness that occurs here, so if you want to skip that, I'd skip from the sentence that begins "James is still laughing" and just keep skipping over James's section until you hit the line break.  There's also mild violence at the end, in Severus's section.  Feel free to skip that as well, as there is blood involved. &amp; I apologize for any formatting errors, AO3 really doesn't like importing from word docs...</p><p>This is dedicated to my readers, and especially my new Tumblr friends! Thank you for 100 followers, omg!! But mostly - thank you for talking to me and being so kind and lovely, it really makes my day to message/reblog with you all :) I'm so happy I started my blog!</p><p>Anyway, on with the chapter...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>I shall be telling this with a sigh</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Somewhere ages and ages hence:</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I took the one less traveled by,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And that has made all the difference.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Robert Frost, <em>The Road Not Taken</em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The marching on of February into March of 1977 is met with a boorish sort of acceptance from the Hogwarts student body, who know enough about the Scottish Highlands at this point to understand that <em>Spring</em> is a concept more theoretical than practical, so the air is largely permeated with pre-exam dread (in lieu of any sort of warm-weather cheer) as the winter chill clings to the trees and the clouds tinge the sporadic spots of sunlight with dapples of muted grey.</p><p>For Lily Evans, the beginning of March is a time of unwanted reflection and missed opportunities.  Oh—and chocolate.  A notable uptick in her consumption of chocolate.  If this is a response to the other aforementioned tidings of March, she’ll simply choose not to notice.</p><p>Plus, Honeydukes got a new order of Chocolate Cauldrons—<em>with nougat!</em>—at the end of February due to a delay in a Valentines’ shipment, so the supply of sweets that sits covetously in Lily’s trunk has never been so well-curated in her life.  It’s like an energy boost each day after hours and hours of coursework and N.E.W.T’s.</p><p>But this is all accessory information, really.  Onto the tough stuff: the first weekend in March. </p><p>Or, as Lily’s taken to calling it: <em>the doomsdays</em>.</p><p>The Sunday when she’s supposed to be hosting a post-wedding brunch at her parent’s three-bedroom house in Cokeworth is not spent doing anything of the sort at all—this is, if you’ll remember, due to an excessively despicable letter from Petunia, which essentially barred Lily from attending the affair entirely, along with hurling none-too-few blistering insults on the way.  Woe be it for her to get another letter anytime soon after the type of post she’s gotten recently; she’d probably spin out into hysterics before even breaking the envelope seal. </p><p>The appropriately dreary Sunday is, instead, spent hiding out in the Hogwarts library and avoiding all manner of prying eyes.  It isn’t that she’s ungrateful for her friends’ concern, really, but she’s seen the way they’ve all been looking at her lately—like she’s a piece of brittle porcelain teetering just on the edge of a high shelf, and they’re all turning frantically to each other, unsure where look to find the resin they’ll need to fill her inevitable cracks. </p><p>It’s been an exhausting few days of repeating her much-rehearsed <em>honestly, I’m fine</em>’s and <em>really, please stop worrying</em>’s.  In fact, this very morning, Lily was barely able to make it out of the portrait hole without unsolicited accompaniment in the form of a very panicked Mary MacDonald, whose hair was still hopelessly messy and who had yet to actually exit the confines of her four-poster.</p><p>“I’ve got loads of prep to do!” Mary yelped as she saw Lily gathering her things. “I’ll just grab my books and—”</p><p>Lily, who knew that Mary had no such pressing work as she had just spent the last three days agonizing over an assignment she turned in yesterday, shot this idea down with naught but a stern look.</p><p>“Mary,” she sighed in elaboration, “we both know you need a lie in.  I’m <em>fine</em>.  I’m just going to do some work—I promise to come find you if I need to weep, or something.”</p><p>“Well…oh, <em>alright</em> then.  But do come back if you need to, Lily.”</p><p>“Mm-hm.”</p><p>Evidently, this exchange assuaged enough fear for Mary to let her go unchaperoned.  Either that or the girl was simply too tired to put up a real fight—she flopped back down onto her pillows and was asleep again within the next minute.  Lily rolled her eyes fondly and continued to pack her things. </p><p>
  <em>These girls, I swear.</em>
</p><p>Due to the early hour, she was able to sneak her way out of Gryffindor Tower unbothered and unaccompanied, heeding her mind’s call for the sanctity and safety of the cavernous Hogwarts library.</p><p>It is there, in fact, that she sits now, with a monstrous stack of books to her left and a napkin full of untouched breakfast goods to her right.  </p><p>Not a terrible way to spend a day, if you ask her.  Not necessarily as rambunctious as a Quidditch match or—as much as she keeps trying to banish these sorts of thoughts, they <em>really just keep popping up</em>—as lavish as a wedding, but it’s not altogether terrible.  The library is a nice place to be.</p><p>At least in here there’s no one around to shoot her pitying looks or ask how she’s doing.  Well, unless you count the portrait of Rowena Ravenclaw that’s been disdainfully eyeing her book choices and scoffing every so often, folding her arms every time Lily abandons a textbook for her well-worn, cherished copy of <em>Pride and Prejudice</em>.  But that’s just as well.</p><p>“I bet you’d like Jane Austen if you’d been alive when she was writing,” she snaps irritably when Rowena heaves a sigh across the room.  So what if this is the third pleasure reading break she’s taken in two hours? It’s not anyone’s business, anyway.  Especially not a centuries-old portrait who is distinctly devoid of tact.</p><p>The day ticks on in a peaceful silence.  There’s a Defense essay to write, a Potions project to outline, and a trip to Pemberley she’s dying to read about in the moments when said assignments become too insufferable.  Darcy really is everything you’d want a man to be, she concludes by the end of the chapter.  Wealthy, intelligent, and—rarity of rarities—kind to his younger sister.</p><p>She’s made reluctant headway into the Defense essay (Hemlock really is a menace, assigning two rolls of parchment for something as banal as the origins of <em>protego</em>) and has nearly finished the Potions essay by the time she leans back to stretch out her back.  She realizes, with an unsubtle jolt of surprise, that the sky is tinged with yellow—it’s nearly five o’clock in the evening.  She’s been in here for the entire day. </p><p>Supper should be in an hour or so.  Her stomach grumbles yearningly at the thought, and Rowena looks decidedly unimpressed.</p><p>“Oh, hush up,” Lily mutters. <em> Like she’s never been hungry before.</em></p><p>She’s packing up her books from the long, drawn-out session when she’s suddenly interrupted—quick, panic-laden footsteps thud heavily toward her, emerging at the forefront of her awareness with the heavy trepidation of a Hitchcock thriller.</p><p>Lily looks up and straight into the oil-black irises of her former best friend.</p><p>Like something out of her more recent stress-induced nightmares, Severus is crowding her against her chair, popping up almost out of thin air with a pallor that’s somehow even more white than his normal sickly complexion.  She blinks a few times—unsure, for a moment, if he’s real or an apparition of her sleep-deprived mind—before bristling, and she holds her textbooks tightly to her chest and doesn’t object when strands of her hair fall forward over the outer corners of her eyes. </p><p>Very fitting, she thinks, that she’s just finished the part of <em>Pride and Prejudice </em>where Mr. Wickham’s true character was revealed.  <em>Poor Lydia.</em></p><p>“What do you want, Sev?”</p><p>“You aren’t supposed to be here,” is the only thing he says, wide-eyed and panicked.  He repeats it another time like an incantation: “you aren’t supposed to <em>be here</em>.”</p><p>Lily blinks.  Even for him, this is a bit strange.  “What are you <em>on</em> about?”</p><p>“You—you said you wouldn’t be here.  Your sister’s wedding—"</p><p>“I don’t know how the hell you know about that, Severus,” Lily says flatly as she sidesteps him—he’s lurched forward like a drowning man, one arm outstretched as if to ward her away like a fevered hallucination, “but if it’s of any consequence, she uninvited me.  I’m sure it’s all the hot gossip in Cokeworth.”</p><p>“But—” Severus looks like he might be ill, “you can’t… I made sure—”</p><p>“You made sure of <em>what?”</em></p><p>“I—” he opens his mouth once, twice, and is well on his way to the third by the time she turns and walks away.  Whatever he has to say is of no matter to her now; he made sure of that last June.</p><p>Lily mulls his words over in her mind as she hurries out of the library. <em> You’re not supposed to be here,</em> he said.  The words are an odd departure from his normal pleading and beseeching.  They don’t sit well in her brain as she walks, like a jagged corner of the sentence catches on one-too-many synapses and sets alight a prickling sort of nervousness, and she’s almost tempted to retrace her steps and shake an explanation out of him. </p><p><em>I made sure</em>, he said. </p><p>Made sure of what? That she would feel unwelcome in her own school? That she’d feel isolated from one of the only people that knows her from childhood? Those are certainly thing’s he’s <em>made sure of</em>. </p><p>
  <em>Mudblood.  Filthy, little mudblood.</em>
</p><p>“Bastard,” Lily grumbles, and decides resolutely that she will <em>not</em> be retracing her steps.</p><p>The Grand Staircase is kind to her today; it moves exactly where she wants it to.  She’s got but a few minutes’ walk back to Gryffindor Tower.</p><p><em>Maybe I’ll get in a nap before dinner</em>, she thinks, <em>I’m bloody shattered.</em></p><p>And then, suddenly and without any permission from the logical parts of her brain, James Potter pops into her mind. </p><p>His image is an intrusive thought so striking it nearly makes her stop in her tracks on the Grand Staircase—which would not be a good idea, considering their proclivity for shifting sideways at students’ most vulnerable moments—and physically shake her head back and forth as if to ward it away.</p><p>
  <em>Out, out, out! Not right now!</em>
</p><p>But her brain does not bend to her will—the bloody turncoat.</p><p>The past two weeks haven’t seen them alone together again since that one night in the Common Room, when he was but a faint silhouette and she was a blubbering mess, engulfed in the plush crimson fabric of a massive sleeper chair.  Of course, since then she’s seen him fleetingly when he’s with his friends and she with hers; the first time after that night, she’d been nearly unable to look him in the eye, too keenly aware of how he’d seen her in such a vulnerable moment.</p><p>But he’s been surprisingly…<em>normal</em>.  Pleasant, even.  There’s been no indication that any of his mates know that they talked, and for his own part, he continues to jaunt and jibe with all the effortless charisma that he normally exudes.  It’s nothing atypical; it’s business as usual.</p><p>But there are these <em>moments, </em>Lily ponders, when she thinks she might see a glimmer of that same boy from that night in the Common Room, each fleeting, hidden under a veneer of boyish self-aggrandizement.  These flickers of quiet humanity that dance across his face like twirling sparks, disappearing out of existence at a moment’s notice, but just a touch too dazzling for her to ignore. </p><p>They happen when the world is spinning on loudly around him; when Sirius is in the middle of a grand, embellished joke, or Marlene and Dorcas have sparked a Quidditch debate that’s dissolving quickly into ad-hominem insults.  She’ll look at him—not because of any particular reason, but in the same way that eyes just drag across a room—and see the way that his gaze assesses the scene; not cold enough to be calculating, but lacking the warmth of a casual perusal.  He’s caught her gaze in these moments more than once, to her endless embarrassment, but whenever he does, he simply sends her a small grin.</p><p><em>You’re here</em>, it says, <em>if there’s nothing else, you’re a part of something here.</em></p><p>It’s a comfort she didn’t even realize she’d wanted—as the <em>doomsdays </em>approached, so too did a sense that her world was shrinking, coiling in upon itself, leaving nowhere for her to go when the final planes of land turn into jagged, cutting edges.  This look from him was like having someone let a breeze in when she didn’t even realize she’d been suffocating slowly in its absence.</p><p>The last time such a grin happened, in the midst of a very tumultuous game of Exploding Snap but three nights ago, Lily worked up the gumption to send him one back. <em> I’m glad to be here</em>, she hoped it said, <em>it’s better than anywhere else</em>.</p><p>And then leaf subsided to leaf, and trepidation gave way to comfortable standoffishness.  The world began to turn around them once more, simpler and clearly defined—he was Potter and she was Evans, and he’d make stupid jokes and she’d roll her eyes, the familiar rhythm of their back-and-forth replacing whatever silent communication in which they’d just participated. </p><p><em>“You need to deflate your head,” </em>she’d say.</p><p><em>“Why would I do that?”</em> he’d respond with a Very James Potter Grin, <em>“I’m hoping to float all the way to the top of the Astronomy Tower one day.”</em></p><p>Cue: the eye-roll.  <em>What a moron.</em></p><p>But it remains undeniable.  There’d been a shift between them, deep-seated and tectonic, the kind that makes itself known in the smallest things: the sound of breaths, the quirk of lips.  The kind that’s present even in the quiet moments without anyone there to witness.  The kind that lingers between them long after they’ve left the room.</p><p>And she’s got absolutely no fucking clue what it means.  Give her a N.E.W.T-level potions practical over this any day, for fuck’s sake.</p><p>“Codswallop,” Lily says to the portrait of the Fat Lady, who bows her head in acquiescence and wills the door open. </p><p>A brief rush of adrenalin sets her veins alight as she scans the Common Room upon entering, and she realizes—with nothing short of self-induced shock—that she’s looking to see if he might be seated in one of the many chairs or lying atop one of the couches.</p><p>
  <em>I’m losing it.  It’s been six years here, and I’ve finally lost the plot.</em>
</p><p>She shakes herself, a system reboot of shuddering muscle and blinking eyes.</p><p>It’s not as if she <em>wants</em> to be alone with him—really, it isn’t.  But he’s had the chance to catch her off-guard, to walk in and interrupt her peace with the magnitude of his presence, and she finds that, for some reason, she wants the same opportunity. </p><p>It’s the kind of game you play even when you’re not familiar with all the pieces yet; when what’s in front of you is still laden with mystery, and you’re still trying to suss out what it means to have the upper hand.  Lily’s played it before, when everything and everyone was new and fresh, when Hogwarts was a portal to a world yet unknown.  When she had to decide who she was going to be when she stepped off the train for the very first time.</p><p>She’s just never thought that James Potter, of all people, might be the one sitting across the board.</p><p><em>No,</em> she reasons as she makes her way toward the girls’ rooms, it’s not as though she’d seek him out for company—but she’s willing to admit that, if he were to be lounging idly in one of the chairs, the intrigue of it all might be reason enough to slow her walk away.</p><p>“Oi, Evans!”</p><p>A heartbeat, and a feeling that is absolutely not disappointment flooding her system when it is in fact Benjy Fenwick who authored the call.</p><p>Lily turns toward him—he’s all blonde hair and blue eyes, dazzling smile and cutting jawline.  He’s attractive in a way that is simultaneously off-putting. “Alright, Benjy?”</p><p>He responds with a genial grin, “Alright, thanks—but, hey, could you tell Remus that it’s a little below the Marauders to use <em>poetry</em> as a prank?”</p><p>“Um…What?”</p><p>“Oh,” Benjy says, “you haven’t heard?”</p><p>Her expression must be appropriately perplexed (I mean, really: <em>what?</em>) because Benjy elaborates after a short pause.</p><p>“A bunch of kids came back from lunch to see these notes on their pillows; they’ve got the first part of the <em>Gashlycrumb Tinies</em> written on them, if you’d believe it.” Benjy lets out a laugh at the emergence of alarm on her features. “S’alright, Lily—I’m sure it’s just the boys having a bit of a laugh at the younger ones.  But it’s a bit cheap for them, is all.  I was expecting something to explode or start singing.”</p><p>Lily has to agree: the poem is garish and morbidly funny, so it would probably be enough to send a few third years into a low-level fit of terror, like a scary story told in the waning minutes of a campfire.</p><p>But something about it seems…<em>off</em>.  It’s such a random, minute sort of joke; unless it was just Peter’s idea that the others went along with out of blind loyalty, it’s not nearly to the caliber of which she knows them capable.</p><p>Or maybe they’re just losing their touch, what with N.E.W.T.s and all.  Everyone’s been exhausted lately, so it’s not unreasonable to think that they’re just throwing shit at the wall until something sticks.</p><p>Typical.  She rolls her eyes at Benjy—<em>the things they put me through.</em></p><p>“Those tossers,” she says dismissively, “I’ll let them know—thanks.”</p><p>By way of a <em>you’re welcome</em> or <em>see you later </em>or maybe even a <em>you’re a gem, Evans, </em>Benjy grins a mischief-minded grin as he begins to turn on his heel to walk away.  However, before he’s fully swiveled away from her, he presses a smacking kiss to her cheek that says one or all three of the above.</p><p>Lily blinks.</p><p>
  <em>Well, that was interesting.</em>
</p><p>Benjy Fenwick is forthright and unabashed; he’s flirtatious and open in his regard, and it’s as much an anomaly as any teenager’s forthrightness might be.  He’s thrown her for a loop today, when she already has so much on her mind, yet any other day she’d see his actions coming a mile away, and in another universe, maybe she’d have blushed under his attentions.  But Benjy Fenwick is forthright and unabashed, and there’s a part of her, however small a part it may be, that wants for the mystery of which he so boldly has decided to lack.</p><p>*                      *                      *</p><p>There’s a never-ending cycle of drama to be discussed in the sixth-year girls’ dormitory, and when Lily opens the door, she’s thrown into the middle of it like she’s been suddenly transfigured into a red-haired quaffle.  <em>Brooms at the ready, </em>she hears distantly as shouting emerges before the door’s even fully ajar, <em>I want a nice, clean game.</em></p><p>“But you’ve been disappearing lately, Marlene!” Mary’s in the middle of accusing when Lily steps into the room.  When she spots Lily, her eyes light up in unmistakable triumph. “You’ve seen it too, Lily, haven’t you?”</p><p>
  <em>Aaaaand MacDonald has possession—but it’s a risky play, and she’s fumbling the grip! Will she drop the ball?</em>
</p><p>“Er…” Lily searches for a response. “Sorry—what have I noticed?”</p><p><em>“Exactly!”</em> Marlene cries with visible smugness. “Nothing, Lily.  Mary’s convinced I—of <em>all people</em>—have a boyfriend.  It’s absurd, isn’t it?”</p><p>
  <em>What a blunder from MacDonald! It’s McKinnnon who steals, and boy, is she quick-fingered! She’s not letting go, that’s for sure!</em>
</p><p>“Oh…Well, that <em>does</em> seem a little far-fetched, Mary.  I mean, this is <em>Marlene</em>.”</p><p>“Thank you! That’s what I said! This is <em>me</em> we’re talking about!”</p><p>
  <em>McKinnon lines up her arm…She’s got a hell of a shot; nobody seems to be defending her…</em>
</p><p>From the loo emerges Alice, towel-drying her hair with one hand. “I don’t know, Marlene,” she says, “you <em>have</em>been running off at odd hours lately.  Plus, I was awake last night when you stumbled through the portrait hole—two a.m.? Really?”</p><p>Lily blinks. “Marly, you got in at <em>two a.m.?!”</em></p><p>“Well—alright.  Now, hang on a minute, Alice—"</p><p>
  <em>What’s this?! It’s Alice Fortescue coming out of nowhere with the critical block! No points for McKinnon, and what a shocker, folks—I didn’t even know Fortescue was tending goal!</em>
</p><p>“A-<em>ha!”</em> cries Mary. “I knew it! I—knew—it!”</p><p>Lily lets her gaze cut across the room and settle on Marlene, whose face is a kettle on its third minute aflame; she may as well have steam coming from her ears, she’s reddening so rapidly.</p><p>There follows a beat that reminds Lily of those stand-off scenes in old, Western movies, where one cowboy yells to the other: <em>this town ain’t big enough for the two of us!</em></p><p>“And what about <em>you</em>, Mrs. Dearborn?” Marlene hisses from her perch on her four-poster.  She’s been dogged in her pursuit of information from Mary on the subject of the girl’s very fresh, very <em>hush-hush</em> courtship with one seventh-year Ravenclaw, and she’s apparently not above using it as fodder to shift the tide of the conversation entirely.</p><p>
  <em>And it looks like that’s it, folks! Game over—McKinnon wins!</em>
</p><p>It’s Mary’s turn to flush now, and she does so with gusto. “What about it?”</p><p>Sensing that the room is about to descend into another round of ruthless gossiping, Lily makes her way over to her own four-poster, eager to have a few minutes’ rest before trotting down to the Great Hall for a much-needed meal.</p><p>Her progress stops when she spots a small, folded piece of paper resting atop her pillowcase.  <em>Oh, no way.</em></p><p>Yes way.</p><p>Lily snatches it up as she sits atop her bed—it must have been written fairly recently, or at least by someone with a very unsteady hand; the ink is still fresh, and some of it swipes onto her thumb as she traces a word.  “Ugh,” she mutters in irritation.</p><p>She rolls her eyes at the familiar verses.  She hasn’t read <em>The Gashlycrumb Tinies</em> since she was nine or ten.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A is for Amy who fell down the stairs</em>
</p><p>
  <em>B is for Basil assaulted by bears</em>
</p><p>
  <em>C is for Clara who wasted away</em>
</p><p>
  <em>D is for Desmond thrown out of a sleigh</em>
</p><p>
  <em>E is for Ernest who choked on a peach</em>
</p><p>
  <em>F is for Fanny sucked dry by a leech</em>
</p><p>
  <em>G is for George smothered under a rug</em>
</p><p>
  <em>H is for Hector done in by a thug</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I is for Ida who drowned in a lake…</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Those gits.</p><p>“Oh,” says Mary, and Lily turns to see that the other girl is holding a matching card up with a bemused expression, “you got one too?”</p><p>“Yeah, what a pisstake—sodding idiots didn’t even finish the couplet.”</p><p>Marlene lets out a petulant whine, arms splayed out in visible frustration.  “How come <em>I</em> didn’t get one? This is hippogriff shit!”</p><p>“There, there,” placates Alice from a seat across the room, towel still in hand, “I didn’t get one either, Marly.  I checked my room an hour ago.”</p><p>“Maybe they just picked out people they’d annoy the most.”</p><p>Mary giggles. “Would make sense to give one to Lily, then—are you sure it’s not got a love note on the back? <em>Be mine, love James?”</em></p><p>“Oh, piss off, you harpies.” The back of Lily’s neck feels hot.  She hates when they talk about this nonsense. “That all ended last year, I’ve <em>told</em> you.”</p><p>“Yeah, right,” Marlene scoffs, “more like he’s just too afraid to come near you.”</p><p>“What about <em>piss off</em> was unclear to you?”</p><p>“Ignore her, Lily—she’s just jealous she didn’t get a weird death poem.”</p><p>“<em>Hey—</em>Alice, you’re supposed to be on my side!”</p><p>Lily peers at the clock.  Forty-five minutes until dinner.  She sets the little card on her bedside table and flops down onto the soft surface, turning away from the conversation and pulling the drawstring of her curtains so they shut with a heavy <em>whoosh</em>. </p><p>There’s an itching disquiet sitting restlessly at the back of her brain, though—a tiny, creeping thing.  It’s the kind of feeling she gets when she knows she’s missing the answer to a particularly difficult Charms question, or a key ingredient in a potion.</p><p><em>It’s just Severus,</em> she placates herself, <em>he’s got you shaken up.  You haven’t slept properly in days, and now you’re letting him into your head.</em></p><p>Right.  Sleep would be pretty grand, all things considers.</p><p>“Wake me up in an hour,” she says to the room as she burrows into her comforter.</p><p>“But supper starts in—”</p><p>“Just do it.”</p><p>“Oh, fine.” Marlene is trying her best to sound annoyed, but it’s a fairly shit performance.  Lily knows she’ll spend the time reading a Gloria Steinem book or catching up on Puddlemere’s recent games.  “Guess we’ll all be late then.”</p><p>She’s asleep before she can think of a response.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Significant moments—big, watershed ones, the kind people remember for the rest of their lives—are very rarely centered on one person.</p><p>James knows this to be true, as he’s experienced it through his entire life; the most poignant moments, the ones that he’s catalogued in his head for later reflection, are born of groups and teams of people.</p><p>The first Sunday in March is full of significant moments for James Potter, each bombarded with moving parts and teams of people; none of which he wants to remember, but all of which he knows he will.  He hates the first Sunday in March of 1977, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to call it, but he’ll commemorate it somehow in the future, with a silent drink or a solemn moment of reflection.</p><p>He’ll remember this day for the rest of his life—it’s seared into his brain like a burning brand.</p><p>It all starts about half an hour into Sunday dinner.  </p><p>By this time, James has already stuffed himself full of food and is contemplating what homework he still has to finish for the next morning, and his muscles are finally starting to ease from the day’s grueling Quidditch practice.</p><p>The meal starts out quite well, at least.  As per usual, the Marauders occupy the coveted space smack in the middle of the Gryffindor table—not ostracized to the door like the first years, yet also far enough away from the teachers that they can plot and plan whatever they like—and Peter is in the middle of describing a particularly difficult chess maneuver when Dumbledore finishes his mealtime announcements and gives the room his blessing to eat. </p><p>Cornucopias of food appear in front of the students: each plate is a picture of abundance, mouth-watering roast turkeys and potatoes spilling over onto the table, and a few feet over, bowls and bowls of veggies and mash—and if James has anything to say about it, they’re all going to be significantly less full in a matter of moments.</p><p>“Slow down, Prongs, for Merlin’s sake.” Remus chastises him from across the table, looking slightly horrified at James’s display of digestive gymnastics.  He’s managed to scarf down two very significant portions of meat, along with an unspeakably large number of potatoes.</p><p>“No, no,” remarks Sirius, who, by contrast, is staring at James like he wants to start taking notes—<em>minute four, subject still eating; minute ten, no one is sure how he has not yet vomited—</em>and whose own fork is paused midway to his mouth, “let him keep going. If he chunders, I’m going to tell Madam Pomfrey it’s a case of Scrofungulus.  That’ll surely cancel lessons for tomorrow, don’t you think?”</p><p>“I <em>think</em> that you’re an idiot.”</p><p>“You simply lack my vision, Moony.”</p><p>“I lack an appetite at the moment—look, he’s <em>still going!” </em></p><p>Remus is correct: James has barely paused to inhale through his current mouthful of vegetables, yet he’s presently reaching for a supper roll.  He pointedly ignores the audience of his three best mates.  Their expressions are painted with varying degrees of abject terror.</p><p>What can he say? He’d run a brutal practice, for himself included.</p><p>“Godric and Agrippa, Prongs,” Sirius marvels, “I hate to be the one to break this news, but even if you clear off all these plates, they’re just going to refill.  This is a rather grotesque exercise in futility.”</p><p><em>“Fiff ough,” </em>James replies.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Peter chimes in from over his book—<em>A Thousand Ways to Smash a Bishop.</em> “He said ‘piss off,’ Padfoot.”</p><p>“Ah, yes.  Thanks, Wormy, for the translation.” Sirius redirects towards James with a resigned expression. “You’re a disgusting sort of bloke, but I do love you anyway.”</p><p>
  <em>“Wuff ew floo.”</em>
</p><p>“He said—”</p><p>“I got it, Wormtail.”</p><p>Before any of his mates can get any further jabs in about his dietary habits, James washes the contents of his mouth down with a mighty gulp of Pumpkin Juice and takes a large drag of air.  It’s fortunate, in fact, that he’s chosen this moment to do so; Lily and her mates have just walked into the Great Hall and are approaching the open seats next to the Marauders, chatting animatedly as they walk.</p><p>He blinks.  Lily’s hair is tied into some sort of half-up-and-half-down contraption, where the top part is pulled from her face, and the bottom part falls over her collar in deep, crimson waves.  The ends curl inward slightly, like they’ve been let out from a plait, and they bounce in time with her steps before she flicks them back over her shoulder and swings her legs over the wooden bench.</p><p>James swallows again—despite the fact that he has yet to actually put any more food in his mouth.</p><p>
  <em>Get a grip, Potter. You’re already on thin ice after that night in the Common Room.  Don’t you dare muck it up now.</em>
</p><p><em>Thin ice</em> seems like a mild way of putting things, if you ask James.  Ever since that one night, he’s done his best not to get any hopes up about Lily’s attitude towards him, lest he get too comfortable and do something stupid in front of her, like…speak.</p><p>But it isn’t that they’ve started acting differently toward each other. </p><p>In fact, that couldn’t be farther from the truth; she’s been her normal, genial self with him, scolding him appropriately when the need arises and sending him disapproving looks at the sight of some of his more lucrative contraband (this month’s shipment of firewhiskey was particularly large, but that’s Sirius’s fault, not his), but otherwise treating him with the same level of kind patience with which she’s been treating him all year.</p><p>But he knows one thing, deep in his bones: the stakes are different now.</p><p>There was an inexplicable sense of freedom before that night, when she tolerated his presence the same way that one might a particularly noisy kneazle—tired acceptance followed by gentle rebukes when he got too close.  It wasn’t better, but it was certainly easier.</p><p>He can only try and make sense of this new state of being in the same way he thinks about chess matches with Peter: if you’re playing a game you know you’re going to lose, what’s the harm in having a little fun as you flounder down the path to defeat?</p><p>But now that she knows he’s something of a real person<em>—</em>or a cheap imitation of one, as Sirius is keen on reminding him—it’s like he’s got something to lose.  That’s what nobody tells you about making progress in something you actually care about: a new fear develops, novel and striking, that you might somehow lose any ground you’ve managed to gain.  This new fear is shadowy and looming, and it overwhelms all fears previous, because there’s something singularly terrifying about the possibility of loss where there had once only been stagnancy.</p><p>The one primary hindrance to any Lily-related progress is his innate proclivity for saying utterly stupid shit when she’s around.  This is especially true when he’s with his mates, because for some reason, his traitorous mind wants to see him fail in front of Sirius more than anyone.</p><p>“Wotcher, girls?” He asks, and it comes out extremely normal.  But is that too normal? Like, does it sound like he’s <em>trying </em>to be normal? He can’t remember what his normal voice sounds like.</p><p>“Hiya,” says Mary.</p><p>“’Lo,” says Marlene.</p><p>Alice waves, and Lily shoots him a smile (and Remus and Peter and Sirius, but he doesn’t fucking care), and all of a sudden, he needs more pumpkin juice.</p><p>He takes another swig.  Sirius is looking at him funny.</p><p><em>“What?”</em> He hisses, abnormally self-conscious under his best friend’s stare—it turns out, in fact, with good reason.</p><p>“I just think you’re so <em>cute!”</em> Sirius reaches over the table to pinch his cheek, which elicits a yelp and a swat at the offending hand. “My ickle Prongsie!”</p><p>“Oi!”</p><p>“Merlin’s pants,” sighs Remus—he does quite a bit of sighing at them, James thinks, which is quite unfair given his own part in their more elaborate pranks—as he takes a forkful of vegetables, “you two deserve each other.”</p><p>The rest of the meal is really rather uneventful.  The boys express their intense jealousy over the Seventh Years’ practical exams with Mad-Eye Moody, to which Alice rebuts with an impressively nervous gulp of pumpkin juice; James has to stop himself from asking her if she’s dumped any firewhiskey in it (because if she had, he’d quite like some, thank you very much).  By the end of the hour, James is sure he’s gone up a trouser size because of food intake, and Peter has apparently mastered the bishop sacrifice necessary to move his Queen to D3.</p><p>With his arms stretched behind him and a lazy grin resting comfortably on his face, James barely registers when the plates are cleared and, immediately, the table is a colorful display of sweets and confections galore.</p><p>He does—however—notice something different about what’s placed in front of him.</p><p>Dessert, this particular evening, appears to be a mixture of the normal treacle tarts and various cakes, and…<em>pink clouds?</em></p><p>James blinks.  There are pink puffs sitting in front of him—masquerading as food—where normally there would be some sort of chocolate mousse or rich, glistening sticky toffee pudding.  But instead, there are…clouds.  He’s a bit perplexed.</p><p>“Um,” he says, “what are…”</p><p>Trailing off, he turns to Sirius, who seems equally confused, and then to Peter, who’s looking helplessly at the pink globs of—<em>string? Spider webs?</em>—as if they might leap from the table and attack him.  Only Remus seems nonplussed, actually raising his hand to reach for a bit of the stuff before Sirius bats his hand away like one would a small child.</p><p>“Hey!” Remus complains, rubbing his hand. “What’s wrong with you?!”</p><p>“You weren’t actually going to <em>take</em> some of that, were you?”</p><p>“I was, actually! Who do you think you are—my mum? Monitoring my sugar intake?”</p><p>As the three pureblood wizards look at Remus in obvious confusion, James can see the moment that Remus realizes that they have no idea what the stuff is—his grin turns Cheshire, eyes gleaming with unveiled superiority.  James addresses him beseechingly. “Moony, what in Merlin’s name <em>is</em> all of this?”</p><p>Before Remus can answer, another voice cuts in from nearby.</p><p>“It’s candy floss, you posh wanker.”</p><p>He turns.  Mary is looking at him like he’s got a large number of extra heads, none of which, paradoxically, seem to supply him any extra brains.  She and Lily are both eating delicate handfuls of the now-identified<em> candy floss </em>with delighted grins on their faces, while Marlene and Alice seem to share in his and the other boys’ confusion.  Blessedly.</p><p>“You’re eating <em>floss?!”</em></p><p>It’s Lily who responds to him this time, and James is very painfully aware of how stupid he must appear in this moment, but he tries to shove that thought away before it forces him to flee the room.  Her eyes are a light, whimsical shade of green—more of a seafoam or chartreuse than the darker moss color they’ve been of late, and they suit her quite well.  Maybe eating a string isn’t so bad.</p><p>“Candy floss is a sweet, Potter.” She explains with a roll of her (<em>definitely seafoam</em>) eyes. “It’s spun sugar.  Not <em>actual</em> floss.”</p><p>It still sounds rather absurd to him.  He eyes the mound of pink dubiously. “It looks ghastly, Evans.”</p><p>“Bit ironic from someone who’s got no problem eating chocolate shaped like a moving frog.”</p><p>
  <em>“Hey—”</em>
</p><p>But she’s already turned back and popped the small bit of “candy floss” into her mouth with a close-lipped grin. </p><p>James reaches out to tear a small portion of the stuff away from its larger conglomerate, but he’s admittedly awash with trepidation.  It doesn’t <em>look </em>like a sweet, that’s for sure.  To be frank, it doesn’t even look like <em>food</em>.</p><p>But Remus is grinning at him with an expression that says <em>I’m not going to let you live this down if you’re afraid of a blasted dessert</em>, and James Fleamont Potter is not one to back down from such a challenge to his masculinity and fortitude.  Even one that looks like it’s been beamed onto the table from outer space.</p><p>
  <em>Just eat it, James…it’s a sweet…it can’t hurt you…</em>
</p><p>He glares at Remus.  Remus glares back.  Remus’s glare is slightly undermined by the presence of pink candy floss residue atop his upper lip.</p><p>“Oh, by the way,” says Lily casually, and if James hasn’t wanted to kiss her before, he most certainly does now, because she’s looking at <em>him</em> and it’s more than enough of an excuse to put the awful pink substance down, “well done with the poetry, you lot.  Real miscreant behavior.”</p><p>There’s a beat.  James looks at Sirius who looks at Remus who looks at Peter, who just looks confused.  <em>The what?</em></p><p>“The…what?”</p><p>It’s Remus who says it, speaking for all four of them.</p><p>“The—oh, never mind.  You were right, Marly.  They won’t take credit for it.”</p><p>“Told you,” says Marlene with arms folded over her chest and eyes that say <em>I know all</em>, “it’s too shit.  They’re just embarrassed.”</p><p>“Now, hang on just an itty-bitty moment here, ladies!” Sirius objects. “Might I inquire as to <em>what</em> in Merlin’s soggy trousers you’re referring?”</p><p>Marlene just scoffs, and Mary along with her.  James isn’t used to feeling this out of the loop, and he doesn’t enjoy it one bit. “<em>So</em> typical.”</p><p>“Alright, if this is some sort of laugh—”</p><p>“Oh,” Lily giggles—<em>giggles! In front of him! Like it’s just a normal thing she can do and he’s supposed to just sit and not react to it!</em>—with a wave of her hand, “don’t even bother.  It <em>was</em> shit, though.  Might’ve scared the first years, but not us.”</p><p>James is about to open his mouth to defend the honor of himself and his friends (because it’s one thing to slander him, but to slander his <em>pranks </em>is unfathomable) when Sirius drops his head onto the table in dismay.</p><p>“Gods,” he grumbles as he rubs his temples, “I’m too knackered for this nonsense.  I’ll check back in once I’ve had some bloody sleep and the birds have started to make sense again.”</p><p>“You’ve got no one to blame but yourself,” James retorts, “it must have been two in the morning by the time you stumbled back into the room last night. Bleeding insomniac, I swear.”</p><p>Apparently, this is the wrong thing to say. </p><p>It happens all together at once—the table has inexplicably become a tundra; each breath is icy and each look frosted over.</p><p>…And James has no idea why.  He sends each one of his mates a look, a respective glance to each that pleads, <em>was it something I said?</em></p><p>Thankfully, the Marauders have absolutely no idea themselves, as they all shrug.  It’s just the girls who’ve suddenly taken a turn for the stranger, and the shift is obvious—those few seats over, Lily, Mary, and Alice have all frozen as they stare at an equally frozen but much more panicked Marlene McKinnon, whose eyes are wide as they stare unblinkingly at her plate.</p><p>Mary breaks the silence with a loud clearing of her throat.  When she’s finished, she intones darkly, “Two in the morning, you say…?”</p><p>At this, Sirius tenses as well, before shooting a frantic look to his left; to…<em>Marlene?</em></p><p><em>Wait a minute</em>.</p><p>Two in the morning…Sirius’s strange behavior as of late, disappearing before mealtimes and after lessons…<em>Marlene…</em></p><p>
  <em>Wait a sodding, bleeding, blasted minute.</em>
</p><p>It clicks.  James inhales a deep puff of air, inflating like a balloon.</p><p>“YOU DIRTY BASTARD!”</p><p>Sirius jumps almost a foot in the air at James’s holler, and the <em>thud-thud </em>of his knees banging against the wood of the Gryffindor table only slightly muffles his loud, very creative swear at the contact.  Aghast, James rounds on him with wide, disbelieving eyes, leveling a finger to point accusingly between dark furrowed brows.</p><p>“You <em>scoundrel! </em>You didn’t tell me?!”</p><p>“Well—alright, <em>hang on!</em> I mean—”</p><p>“Betrayal! To your fellow <em>Snafool?!”</em></p><p>“What—” Remus looks alarmed and confused, and for once, it’s an expression he shares with Peter. “What is <em>going on?!”</em></p><p>From a few feet away, Marlene—who is the approximate hue of a lovely tomato soup—leaps up from the table and starts toward the door with a rushed, <em>“gottagolotsofthingstodobye!”</em></p><p>“YOU PILLOCK—” James can’t even finish the accusation, because a bubble of laughter interrupts what should be a very angry bellow.  He <em>should</em> be angry, of course; this is his best friend, after all, and he’s clearly been keeping secrets from him.  But the way he’s so decidedly flustered in the face of being caught out <em>for shagging their mate and teammate </em>makes the whole thing rather—well, rather hilarious. </p><p>He’ll have time to be indignant later, when he’ll hurl himself onto Sirius’s four-poster and barrage him with fists and half-hearted insults.</p><p>They’ll probably nick hot chocolate from the kitchens after.  It’ll be a grand evening.</p><p>“I cannot believe,” mutters Lily with an affronted look at Sirius, who is opening and closing his mouth like a marionette whose puppeteer has forgotten his lines, “that you’ve been shagging Marlene.”</p><p>And just like that, the cat is very much out of the bag, and it’s prowling around smugly in Sirius’s face, all feline strut and whiskers and whatnot.</p><p>
  <em>Cats: 1.  Dogs: 0.</em>
</p><p><em>“You’ve been what?!”</em> Peter cries.</p><p>Remus’s mouth drops open as he turns to Sirius, and he seems about to say something but instead closes his mouth and shakes his head.  Sirius, for his part, is looking between the three of his mates like he’s watching a bludger whiz about the space between their heads.</p><p>“Listen, Moony—” he says, but another laugh bursts out of James, so loud and delighted it ceases all speech.</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye and over his peals of hysterics, James sees Lily get up primly from the table and hears her murmur to Mary and Alice: “I’ll go after her, it’s fine.”</p><p>“—in my defense,” Sirius is protesting weakly, “it’s a better stress relief than punching a Slytherin<em>.”</em></p><p>“I’d hope you wouldn’t have the same reaction to those two scenarios, Padfoot,” drawls James between chortles, “and to think I’ve been there when you’ve laid one on most of your Slytherin enemies! The <em>horror!”</em></p><p>Remus rolls his eyes and picks another bit of candy floss onto his plate with a swift tug.  He seems a little miffed by the discussion, but James isn’t entirely surprised; he’s always been a bit prudish when it comes to matters of the other sex.  Not entirely disinterested, but certainly not someone to discuss a tryst over Sunday dinner.</p><p>“I think I can speak for all of us here—” Remus points to himself, and then Peter, and then James, “—when we say we don’t want to hear anything about your <em>stress relief.”</em></p><p>The queasy expression on his face and the grimace on Sirius’s send James into another round of hysterics, this time joined in by Peter to his right.</p><p>James is still laughing, in fact, when he hears Mary let out a cough from her spot a few feet across the table.  It’s a rumbling sort of wheeze, one that comes from the chest and not the throat, and it sounds painful.  Latent coughs and wheezes continue on for at least four or five seconds.</p><p>“Oi, MacDonald,” he turns to her with a furrowed brow, “you alright?”</p><p>“Yeah,” she gasps, “Yeah, I think so—"</p><p>And then, from about halfway between the Gryffindor table and the door, James hears another cough.  This one, too, is deep and hacking, and the breaths that follow it drag out like the air is riddled with shards of glass.</p><p>It’s Lily.</p><p>But it’s also Mary, who hasn’t stopped coughing, who’s holding her chest and rasping between fits and hacks and dry, heaving gulps.  She reaches shakily for a goblet of water and takes a frantic drink, but in the next breath, she’s spewed it all forward onto her plate and across the deep mahogany of the table.</p><p>Sirius, seated next to her in the absence of Marlene, starts to pound her on the back with an open palm. “Merlin and Morgana! You alright?!”</p><p>“Agrippa, Mary!” cries Remus.</p><p>Something stirs in James’s veins—there’s something wrong.  There’s something <em>wrong</em>.</p><p>“Mary, do you need—"</p><p>James can’t even finish the sentence.  Noise and commotion have erupted across the Great Hall.</p><p>“What in the—?!"</p><p>He cuts himself off once more as he swivels around the room, the horror in his veins permeating into his bones, his skin, his eyes and nose and mouth.  More and more coughing begins to emerge; not just from Mary, or even Lily, but from Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws and even one or two Slytherins.  </p><p><em>“Fuck!”</em> Sirius shouts in shock at the same time that Remus cries: <em>“Merlin’s beard!”</em></p><p>Peter whimpers from next to James. “What’s happening?!”</p><p>At the front of the room, stopped before she could even make it out of the Hall to tail after Marlene, Lily begins to sway dizzily on her feet; she wobbles dangerously as if no longer tethered to her own balance. </p><p><em>No, no, no, </em>James thinks, desperate, <em>not her not her not her</em>.</p><p>He’ll feel guilty for such a thought later—he’s got no time to do so now.</p><p>James isn’t sure at what point he’s stood up, but his feet have lifted themselves up and over the wooden bench of the Gryffindor table, and he stands, cagey and nervous, watching helplessly as more and more students begin to succumb to a mysterious, travelling cough.  He sends a quick glance to his mates amidst his body-numbing panic.</p><p>The Marauders all seem unaffected, as do Alice and Frank, who’d only sat down next to his girlfriend minutes prior—it’s just Mary, retching violently, gasping for air she can’t quite seem to reach.  Sirius and Remus are taking turns clapping her on the back and whipping out their wands to fruitlessly try and <em>finite</em> a non-existent spell.  Peter’s turned the other way, because a Seventh Year named Timothy is struggling to breathe on his opposite side, and the small boy is currently attempting to support his weight so as to keep him from toppling over entirely.</p><p>Everything around James blurs—becomes scattered, hazy white noise, present but so incredibly unimportant—when he hears the sound of Lily’s cough once again, but this time it’s <em>wet</em>, dark and heaving and unnatural.  He whips his head around just in time to watch something that he knows will haunt him, nightly, an image from the darkest recesses of his waking mind.</p><p>Lily Evans stands shakily with her shoulders hunched forward and her right hand pressed to her mouth.  Briefly, James sees her muffling laughter.  Her posture makes it easy; the small bow of her shoulders is simply because she’s curled around a joy yet unknown to him, curving with the force of her giggles—which he can imagine so smoothly, which such clarity, because he’d just heard them before, only a few minutes ago—and he breathes in a grateful lungful of air, because he’s clearly just imagined it all. </p><p>It’s all some big joke, maybe; the coughing, the shouting (there’s shouting, now, at the edge of his awareness), it’s all a prank she’s pulled on him, brilliant girl she is, but she’s not experienced enough to last the whole walk to the door—she’s broken too early, let the amusement of it all take over before she could walk away from the trick she’s manufactured. </p><p>James watches her pull her hand away from her mouth, and it’s covered in crimson, and her laughter is not laughter but convulsions, wracking her body from her feet to her neck, buckling her knees before her eyes have time to roll back into her head, forest green and vacant where there should be seafoam and mischief.</p><p><em>“NO!” </em>He roars—but he’s too late.  She hits the ground in a heap and he’s in a waking nightmare and <em>someone, help her! Someone please, please help her—please!</em></p><p>By the time he reaches her, the Great Hall is a massacre.</p><p>At least thirty students have begun to cough and vomit up blood and bile, some collapsing, others unconscious in their seats.  Half the teachers are up and across the room, wands aloft—the other half are scanning the ceiling and the walls as if looking for an invisible intruder.</p><p>Everything around James is a fog, but he knows that—somehow—he’s made it to Lily, and he’s shaking her, yelling at her, pulling her into his lap.  He doesn’t know what’s happening around him.  He’s not sure he can see anything past the tunnel vision that’s only focused on <em>her</em>.</p><p>He comes back into reality when Dumbledore’s voice booms over the chaos.</p><p>
  <em>“SILENCE!”</em>
</p><p>Once again, everything is bright, focused, disgustingly clear; James is sitting with Lily’s head in his lap, her blood—<em>her blood her blood her blood—</em>leaking from her mouth and onto his trousers, and his face is wet and he’s <em>screaming</em>, but if it’s words or nonsense or just hoarse, horrified cries he can’t be sure.  Students are running and screaming around him; ghosts are flying this way and that as if afraid of catching the mysterious ailment.</p><p>A small figure toddles in front of James, and he looks up to see a Hufflepuff girl, not more than twelve, with round, terrified eyes and tear tracks running down plump cheeks.  She opens her mouth, maybe about to cry for help, maybe about to say something else, but it all ceases as she collapses just a meter from his feet.</p><p>Independent of whatever’s happened to these students, James feels the acrid taste of bile rising in his throat.  He feels like he might be sick.  He feels like the world is dying.  There’s suddenly too much stillness amongst the terror, too many students left unmoving.</p><p>
  <em>“AUGMENTUM CORPORA.”</em>
</p><p>Dumbledore’s voice carries like it’s travelling over water.  It’s solid earth, unshaken in the storm, and James has never been so happy to hear it.</p><p>At the spell, the unmoving students begin to lift, and like a parade of apparitions, they float toward the door, still limp, hair falling behind them, fingers dragging along the stone floors.  Lily and Mary, both horizontal, rise a few feet and join the others—James sags in the wake of Lily’s weight, boneless and exhausted and drained.</p><p>The bodies—<em>unconscious</em> bodies, he reminds himself, not just <em>bodies</em>, unconscious bodies—file out of the Great Hall to the eerie sound of horrified, unnatural quiet, and with them goes any grasp James has on the world.  </p><p>*                      *                      *</p><p>The walk back to Gryffindor Tower feels like a fucking funeral march, and James wants to scream at everyone who’s holding their head down like they’re mourning. </p><p><em>They’re not dead, you twats,</em> he wants to yell, <em>they’re not fucking dead.  Stop acting like they’re dead.</em></p><p>A hand claps down on his shoulder, but it’s shaking slightly.  It’s Sirius; one of his nails is painted charcoal black.           </p><p>“You…you alright, Prongs?”           </p><p>There are too many answers to that question weaving and bobbing around James’s brain.  None of them are ones he can say out loud.           </p><p>“Codswallop,” he hears in front of him from a third year with a shaky timbre and a high, pleading tone.           </p><p>“Are you alright, dearies?” Inquires the Fat Lady as she looks around at the swarm of downtrodden Gryffindors. “Everything alright?”            </p><p><em>“Codswallop,”</em> a Seventh Year repeats darkly in reply.           </p><p>The portrait swings open, muffling the indignant huff of the Fat Lady who’s being so blatantly ignored.           </p><p>Sitting heavy on James’s tongue in response to Sirius’s yet-unanswered question is <em>I want to kill</em>, which he’s sure he doesn’t <em>really</em>, but it’s the only thing he can think of that feels anything like the truth. </p><p>Maybe he does want to.  He can’t be sure.  The words stay sequestered in his mouth; they taste like acid and copper.  The second-year Hufflepuff’s face flashes in front of his eyes.  Her lips are trembling, face deathly pale, and her arms aren’t long enough to reach out to him for help, falling limp at her sides as her eyes roll back into her head, only a few feet but an eternity away.  Her curly hair is tied up with two golden bows, which he’s sure she would have needed help to fasten, because she’s too young to do it herself.           </p><p>“Fine.”           </p><p>One of the bows remained on the floor when the teachers urged them out and back to their respective common rooms.  The corner of the right loop, which before had been a bright Hufflepuff yellow, was tinged with crimson, and James can’t get the image out of his head.           </p><p>He can’t think about Lily.  He can’t think about her, because if he thinks about her, he’ll lose his fucking mind.           </p><p>He can’t think about how he saw the whites of her eyes or how the first time he’s ever run his fingers through her hair was when he was trying to unknot it from his robes.  He can’t think about what it feels like to shake her and shake her and not see her wake up.           </p><p>He just…can’t.           </p><p>Sirius looks at James dubiously at his curt response, and James doesn’t blame him.  He’s not even trying to be convincing.  He and the other Marauders drop listlessly into a large sofa in front of the fireplace, but none of them break the silence in which the entire House has chosen to participate.  Not even Peter, whose chess set remains untouched from this afternoon with his bishop still in prime position for sacrifice, moves a muscle.           </p><p><em>It’s not like they’re dead,</em> James reminds himself again—has it been four times now, or maybe ten? He can’t be sure. <em> They’re not fucking dead.  Don’t act like they’re dead.</em>           </p><p>It’s apparent throughout the Gryffindor Common Room that no one wants to do anything but sleep.  Even in his exhaustion, though, James finds himself going over the terror of the incident like he’s got replay goggles for the Quidditch World Cup.           </p><p>He knows the outcome could have been worse. </p><p>If the professors seated at the Head Table had panicked the way that he and his friends had panicked, the entire castle would have descended into complete chaos.  Tables and chairs would have been knocked over in the desperation to get out of the Hall.  Screams would have turned into sobs would have turned into wails and pleas and hopeless, fruitless prayers. </p><p>But they didn’t, because the professors chose to act, and in acting, they did not panic.   </p><p>That moment, the moment after the initial horror—the heart-stopping, gut-wrenching <em>horror</em>—is what he’ll remember so clearly, when he was clutching an unconscious Lily Evans to his chest and when the voice that screamed so desperately for help could not possibly have been is own.  He’ll remember how Dumbledore rose from his seat, how McGonagall was already halfway down the Hall toward the door, shouting instructions and trying unsuccessfully to control the rampant chaos. </p><p>He’ll remember how Sirius caught Mary before she fell, crying out and shaking her in his arms.  He’ll remember Dorcas, across the room, screaming as she saw a fourth-year Ravenclaw girl topple over.</p><p>James will remember that his focus cut away from the girl in his arms and the blood—<em>the blood</em>, he thinks, <em>there’s so much fucking blood why is there so much fucking blood</em>—to search the room, like he was hoping (naïve, stupid boy that he is) for a solution to emerge from the fray.  It’s so typical of him to seek such comfort, to try and find some method in the madness, like the world isn’t vile; like there’s still hope to be found and the students dropping into violent, bloody unconsciousness are anomalies, not examples.  Like the evil of whoever did this to them is the exception and not the rule. </p><p>Instead, as his gaze passes from face to face in his fervor, he sees a group of Slytherin boys, Fifth through Seventh Year, hanging back against the wall and looking for all the world like they plan on melting into the shadows. </p><p>He sees Antony Mulciber; he sees Severus Snape.  He sees Regulus Black and for a quick, heart-stopping moment, the boy looks just like Sirius, only younger, when his face was permanently ashen with fear.  </p><p>And then Sirius blinks across the room and he’s Regulus again and he’s edging toward the door like a skittish animal.</p><p>If you were to ask James who was most important in that moment, he’d say without question: Lily.  His worst nightmare played out in the blue pallor of her lips, the way her head lolled limply to the side when he tried to shake her awake.  Lily was his priority, and the longer she went without waking, the more terrified he became.</p><p>But she was not the only important person in this moment, of that he is sure.  Even barring the other students who fell before him, the teachers who so desperately tried to revive them, he can feel in his bones that the group of boys filing out of the room at Slughorn’s behest had something to do with the state of the girl lying pliant in his arms.</p><p>Because James knows that significant moments—no matter how much they seem to be—are very rarely centered on one person.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>When Mary wakes up in the Hospital Wing, the first thing she registers is that she’s been changed out of her school robes and into the light blue pajamas given to the overnight patients.  They feel itchy and unsettled on her skin; what is surely cotton grazes her collarbones like sharp, gauzy wool.           </p><p>The second thing she’s able to notice is the pain.  It sits, rigorous and unyielding, like an agonizing little aside to the monologue of her consciousness, leaden on her chest and stinging up her throat and into her jaw.  She swallows once and almost retches at the immediate flash of pain that erupts in the back of her mouth.           </p><p><em>“Mmph!”</em> She gurgles frantically, as her own saliva has apparently developed acidic tendencies of some sort and may now be attempting to kill her from the inside out.  She moves to sit up quickly, and then immediately regrets it; sitting up is <em>much, much, much worse</em>.           </p><p>“Now, now, Miss MacDonald—” a soothing voice appears from her left, and Mary turns slightly—<em>ow</em>—to see Madam Pomfrey striding hastily toward her bed, looking extremely harassed. “—you mustn’t speak, it’ll just irritate your throat further.”           </p><p>Mary shoots her a flat look: <em>kind of figured that part out, cheers.</em>           </p><p>If Madam Pomfrey sees her glare, she indicates nothing.  Which is fair.  Mary’s ire is misdirected, of course, but at the moment there’s no one standing around holding a sign that says <em>Rate My Poison!</em> so she’s the closest viable target.           </p><p>Madam Pomfrey taps her wand to a bowl filled with a mint-colored, gooey substance that sits at Mary’s bedside table. <em> Please, </em>Mary thinks, <em>please don’t make me eat that.</em>           </p><p>Blessedly, the mediwitch does not try and force the stuff down her throat, but rather dips a painter’s brush into it and begins to paint the front of Mary’s neck in soft, featherlight strokes.  Mary wants to sigh at the feeling (but she doesn’t, because who knows what that would do).  It’s as if, somehow, the balm is able to go through her skin and cool the inside of her throat, where previously it was filled with magma, hot and churning and awful.           </p><p>When she becomes a healer, one day, she’ll have to ask Madam Pomfrey for the recipe.           </p><p>“How do you feel, dear?” Madam Pomfrey asks.  It occurs to Mary that her brush is still painting small lines of balm onto her throat without Pomfrey anywhere near it; instead, the witch is crushing herbs with a mortar and pestle.           </p><p>“Al—” Mary wheezes, and the pain is back, although this time it’s slightly duller, “al…right.”           </p><p>“Hm.”           </p><p>“Wha…t…hap…ha—”           </p><p>“You were poisoned, Miss MacDonald.”           </p><p>Another glare; a weary sigh.           </p><p>“No, we don’t know how, but please trust that Professor Dumbledore will get to the bottom of it.”           </p><p><em>Right,</em> Mary thinks, <em>because he was so good at preventing it.</em>           </p><p>She supposes it’s probably for the better that she hasn’t the energy to say this bit out loud.           </p><p>The balm is beginning to numb her throat, but the pain bursts through like flashlights through a fog, glaring and sharp and forcing her to blink stray tears from the corners of her eyes.           </p><p><em>You were poisoned, Miss MacDonald,</em> Madam Pomfrey said.  Like it was news.</p><p><em>Yeah, cottoned onto that one, shockingly.  Blame it on the losing-consciousness-and-vomiting-blood bit.</em>           </p><p>Mary spends the next few minutes sitting in begrudged, forced silence.  She wonders briefly if Caradoc will come to see her in the Wing when it opens up to visitors—she then wonders, to her own distinct annoyance, if she even wants him to.           </p><p>Caradoc has been an absolute gentleman these past two weeks, in the infancy of their relationship and in the weeks following the <em>floating flower</em> incident.  He’s brought her more flowers, kissed her cheek in greeting nearly every day, and told her she was pretty a grand total of eleven times in sixteen days.  He’s even walked her to class when his was on a completely different floor, just because he thought her books might be too heavy for her. </p><p>Caradoc Dearborn is—in short—perfectly lovely.           </p><p>But Mary’s lying prone in the Hospital Wing because some lunatic poisoned her, and her throat is on fire and her mouth burns with the ghost of blood and bile.  She’s almost too exhausted to be angry, which in itself is infuriating; she deserves anger, and hurt, and righteous fury.  She <em>wants</em> anger.           </p><p>She doesn’t really, at present, want <em>perfectly lovely</em>.           </p><p>A hoarse cry interrupts her machinations.  Swiveling her head to the right (<em>ow, ow, ow</em>), Mary sees Lily in the bed next to her and feels like weeping at the sight of a friendly face.  Lily looks ghastly, though, and it makes Mary nervous to think what <em>she </em>might look like.           </p><p>“Lily?” She rasps.           </p><p>Lily’s eyes blink rapidly for a few good seconds as she careens back into the waking world.  She makes the same mistake Mary had of trying to swallow, but Mary can’t really feel bad about not warning her, because she can barely fucking speak at the minute.           </p><p>“Guh-<em>eugh!”</em> Lily burbles in obvious pain, raising her arms to massage her tender throat.           </p><p><em>I couldn’t have said it better myself, </em>thinks Mary, which is unusually true at this particular moment.           </p><p>It’s only a matter of seconds before Madam Pomfrey flutters over to Lily, looking pleased to see another student awake.  Mary chooses not to follow that train of thought to its inevitable crash point, because the idea that some of the students lying in beds across the room <em>might not wake up</em> is simply too much for one newly conscious person to bear, so she instead chooses to focus on the paintbrush that hovers daintily next to Madam Pomfrey’s hand, waiting patiently to be of service.           </p><p>Mary knows in her bones that magic, at its core, can be wonderful.  Even after today: whatever magic was used to put her in this place, there’s magic abound trying to lift her up and snap her back out of it, trying to bend the moral arc and right the wrongs that have been so heinously committed.           </p><p>Magic isn’t the problem, of course—it’s just <em>people</em>.            </p><p>“—and absolutely no speaking,” Madam Pomfrey is currently saying to Lily in that terrifying tone of hers that says, <em>you think you know pain? I can show you pain.</em>           </p><p>“Hhmph,” Lily replies, which earns her a glare from the mediwitch.  Mary watches as the floating paintbrush begins to douse Lily’s throat in the same, mint-colored concoction.           </p><p>Madam Pomfrey spends the next few minutes explaining the circumstances of Lily’s hospitalization to her much the same way she did with Mary, with what little information she has and what small placations she can offer.  Lily listens to it with a similar level of exasperation to Mary, which is comforting.           </p><p>A third-year boy across the room wakes up with a startled shout, which draws Madam Pomfrey away from the two sixth-year girls at once.  For a moment, everything seems to be the calm in the wake of the awful, awful storm—that is, until Lily’s eyes fly open and she begins to move frantically about her bed, nearly looking like she intends to leap up out of it and fly out of the Wing entirely.           </p><p>“The—the <em>cards!”</em> Lily gasps, and then gurgles, and then gasps again.  Madam Pomfrey turns toward her sharply from a few yards away.           </p><p>“Miss Evans! I <em>told you</em> not to—”           </p><p>“The <em>cards</em>—” she hacks, coughing up saliva and spitting it into a nearby bucket, and Mary can’t for the life of her understand what is so important about these <em>cards</em> that Lily’s going to kill herself over them, “the <em>poems, it’s the poems—” </em>she retches and lurches forward.           </p><p><em>“Miss Evans!”</em>           </p><p>Lily glares back at Madam Pomfrey with a fortitude that Mary’s sure not many students would attempt.  She takes a deep breath and then winces as the air hits her throat, which Mary can certainly relate to.  <em>Ouch.</em>           </p><p>“The—next—line,” she hisses, “the—<em>line—”</em>            </p><p>The <em>line?  </em>The <em>poems?  </em>What is she on about?           </p><p>“Li—ly…” Mary croaks, “wh…what do—you…mean?”           </p><p>Lily turns to her and—with great effort—lifts up her right hand, displaying the pads of her fingers.  It takes Mary a moment before she sees what Lily wants her to see.           </p><p>A small streak of ink covers Lily’s thumb in a purpling navy blob.  On Mary’s own index finger, a matching patch—the two girls laughed about the Marauders’ ill-advised quillwork on the way down to the Great Hall those few hours ago.  Mary can’t bear to lift her own hand to check that it’s still there.           </p><p><em>The cards.</em>           </p><p>Nearly at once, what Lily’s saying—and why it’s so important that she’s scratching her vocal cords to say it—dawns on Mary.  It feels like a cold hand gripping her heart, merciless and suffocating, ceasing all blood flow to the rest of her body.  She weighs Lily’s words against the boundaries of her mind, the little thoughts that say <em>no, it can’t be true, </em>or<em>it’s all a big misunderstanding, </em>and suddenly she wants to retch as well.           </p><p>
  <em>The cards.</em>
</p><p><em>The poems.</em> </p><p><em>The next line.</em>           </p><p>When Mary had seen the card on her bed this very afternoon, she’d shrugged it off as a Marauder prank or annoying message from some ne’er-do-well Third Year with an ill-advised sense of humor.  She’d laughed, even, when she read what was on it; <em>The Gashlycrumb Tinies</em> had been one of her older cousin’s favorite poems to spook her with before bedtime when she was ten.           </p><p><em>Her muggle cousin, in her muggle household, reading a muggle book of poetry.</em>           </p><p>Mary looks around at the beds across the room.  Marianna Weatherby, Timothy Elkins, Maria Russo, and a slew of others whose names she doesn’t know, all lie unconscious in her field of vision.  She’s barely spoken to any of these students—she couldn’t pick most of them out of a lineup.           </p><p>But the one thing she does know, and maybe she’s known ever since she woke up, or maybe she’s known it every day she’s been in Hogwarts, connects all of them like a honing device.  A search for allies in waters unknown.            </p><p><em>They’re all muggle-born.</em>           </p><p>Mary whips her head around to face Lily again—who’s given up on speaking, so is lying in bed silently with fists clenched into the bedsheets—and they lock eyes, their gazes equal parts frightened and furious.  Lily knows it, too.  She figured it out.  <em>Of course she did.</em></p><p><em>The next line,</em> Lily said.  The poem was written in rhyming couplets, two to a set, yet what was written on the cards ended without resolving the rhyme.  The last line written was <em>I; </em>the next line is…the next line is…</p><p><em>J.</em>  The next line is <em>J.</em></p><p>Like a flash of lightning assaulting her brain, Mary remembers the next line of the poem with acute, nauseating clarity—the missing piece of the unfinished couplet.</p><p>She feels like she’s going to be sick.</p><p>
  <em>J is for James who took lye by mistake.</em>
</p><p>Drinking lye causes burning of the stomach, mouth, and throat—Mary knows this because her mum used to use it to clean the oven, and Mary once had to stop the dog from sniffing it, terrified he might burn his nose.  If ingested in large quantities, it can cause a person to vomit up blood.</p><p>“The—ca..rds?” Her own voice, so faint and so laced with agony, sounds foreign in its horror.</p><p>Lily nods, and at once, the world is dark and filled with horrors, an obstacle course of evils and enemies, where once it had been dazzling and hued with harmonies and wonders.  There are no longer harmless pranks or petty jokes; there are only attacks, some hits, some misses.  There are people who can get into her bedroom and threaten her life.</p><p>Whoever sent those cards didn’t just want harm—they wanted a spectacle.  They wanted to watch the missing couplet play out in front of them like a perverted, disgusting live performance, with the muggle-born students as the unwitting actors, kids and teenagers doomed to the little boy <em>James’s</em> fate.</p><p>Pricks of moisture assault the space behind her eyelids.  Mary blinks furiously to try and ward them away.  Something dark is burrowing in her chest, something cold and hollow and gaping.  It feels like fear; but nothing like the fear she’s felt before.  It’s sunless and Stygian, devoid of humanity or hope at all.  It’s the fear not of something bad happening, not anymore, but rather the fear that this bad thing will only get worse and worse and worse.</p><p>Mary reaches her right hand out to the space between hers and Lily’s bed, and watches, eyes welling once again, as Lily reaches out her left hand to meet her.</p><p>They’re but a few inches too far to hold hands, only able to brush their fingertips against each other’s—the contact is fickle, and fleeting, and miniscule, and yet it’s oxygen.</p><p>*                      *                      *           </p><p>It must only be an hour later when the sisters Abbott storm into the Hospital Wing, fury blazing in their eyes as they let the door slam shut behind them.  The loud, wooden <em>thud</em> wakes Mary up from her fitful nap; next to her, Lily jolts upward like she’s been shocked.           </p><p>They’re jumpy.  It’s one of those unintended side-effects of being recently poisoned; being a bit more wary of the people who walk away unscathed.           </p><p>“Misses Abbott!” Madam Pomfrey hisses as the two girls saunter forward. “You can’t be in here!”           </p><p>Mary hears the reply, but her eyes are closed to ward off an oncoming headache, so she has no idea which one of them says it. “We’ll just be a moment, Madam Pomfrey.  We’ve a note from Dumbledore—look, right here.”           </p><p>The Abbott girls are, in a word, a peculiarity.  The sisters—twins, in fact, though it’s more likely you’d ascribe them to be cousins, with one tall and blonde and the other short and brunette—stride into the Hospital Wing with the assured confidence of two brigands who’ve just made out with the entire contents of a Gringott’s vault, yet somehow also teeming with all of the anger of the officers assigned to apprehend them.           </p><p>The elder, Magdalena, is the first to address the room, her red Gryffindor tie undone slightly under the first button as though pulled askew in frustration.           </p><p>“I’ve had just about enough of this!” She announces with an angry sort of exhaustion, one that seems to bubble up from her chest and erupt from her mouth like dragonfire.  All conscious heads swivel toward her in confusion—Mary’s included.           </p><p>“Magda,” the younger, Evangeline (Mary thinks it's Evangeline. She's a solid...eighty percent sure it's Evangeline), placates with a tug on her sister’s long, blonde plait, “we’ve talked about barging into rooms and shouting battle cries.”           </p><p>This is a familiar staple of the Abbott sisters.  Despite the fact that most twins at Hogwarts seem to fall into the same House, Mary has heard tell that it was evident from the moment they stepped off the Hogwarts Express that Magdalena was bound for Gryffindor and Evangeline to Hufflepuff.  Mary knows that they descend from a long line of purebloods, but the intricacies and minutia of wizarding lines are those types of things she only learns about when Sirius complains about them in the Common Room.  All she knows is this: <em>one is calmer, the other is a bit insane</em>.</p><p>They’re in their seventh year, so aside from passing Magdalena in the Common Room as the girl furtively tries to transfigure her scarf into a rabbit, this will be the most Mary’s ever interacted with the sisters. </p><p>They seem just as chaotic as the local lore has dictated.</p><p>“Whatever, Evie,” Magdalena grumbles, and then raises her volume significantly and turns to the now-not-sleeping patients: “I come here—<em>we, </em>sorry<em>—we</em> come here because you all have been targeted based on your blood, which is hippogriff sh—<em>ow, alright</em>—which is <em>unfair,</em> and we want to—” the girl’s eyes scan the room piercingly, and they make eye contact with each student paying her mind; Mary has to fight not to cringe under the scrutiny, “—<em>show our support.”</em></p><p>After that, the room falls silent, and Mary has absolutely no idea what she’s supposed to do with this unsolicited information.  <em>Clap? Wave? Tell them to bugger off? </em></p><p>It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate this weird, random interjection into her otherwise peaceful evening (a whole hour of peace, what a revelation), but it’s just a bit hard to take this <em>show of support </em>seriously when the people giving it are standing before them, decidedly un-poisoned, the scions of a very impressive pureblood lineage who have probably never felt threatened by anything in their lives that isn’t a rip in their pantyhose.</p><p>Mary cuts a look over to Lily—whose expression gives off the distinct impression that she’d rather be listening to Professor Hemlock describe the origins of the term <em>defense</em>.</p><p>
  <em>A very effective show of support this is turning out to be.</em>
</p><p>As if reading her very skeptical thoughts, the brown-haired one—Evangeline, Mary reminds herself, not just <em>the brown-haired one</em>—continues: “We know you don’t have any reason to listen to us—” (the other one, Magdalena, scoffs at this like it’s some insult to her stage presence, which Mary resents) “—but we’ve good reason to think we can be of help to all of you.”</p><p><em>And I’ve good reason to tell you to fuck off,</em> Mary thinks.  It’s very opportune that the sisters have chosen an audience for this performance who can’t verbally object.</p><p>Nobody poisoned Mary’s middle fingers, though.</p><p>As Mary plans how to nonverbally get these girls’ attention so that she can flip them an appropriately cinematic bird, she almost misses the small movement of Magdalena taking a stack of papers from her pocket (a bit ironic, Mary thinks, considering the information she’s recently learned) and holding them aloft.  She does not, however, miss the flick of Evangeline’s wand as it glides over the small papers.</p><p>The tiny fliers begin to flit and fly upward.  Each one of them swirls like confetti for a brief moment, and Mary wonders if this is some sort of performance art designed to “show support.”</p><p>And then a piece of parchment nearly smacks her in the face.</p><p>“Merlin, Evie!” Mary hears Magdalena stage-whisper. “Little quick on the uptake, there!”</p><p>“Sorry, sorry—got excited!”</p><p>Mary doesn’t even bother looking at them, or even at Lily or the other patients, who she knows were accosted by a flier in the same way she was; she instead lets her eyes drag curiously over the small bit of parchment she’s clutching in her right hand.  It reads in bold, capital letters:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>YOU’RE MUGGLE-BORN.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>YOU’VE BEEN ATTACKED.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>THAT’S WRONG.</em>
</p><p>           </p><p>Well, at least <em>this</em> they can agree on.  She watches as the letters rearrange themselves on the page.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>LEARN HOW TO DEFEND YOURSELF</em>
</p><p>
  <em>MEET AT: THE TAPESTRY OF BARNABAS THE BARMY</em>
</p><p>
  <em>SEVENTH FLOOR</em>
</p><p>
  <em>WEDNESDAY, 8PM</em>
</p><p>
  <em>(turn over)</em>
</p><p>           </p><p>Mary turns the page over.  On it is a brief paragraph labelled <em>CREDENTIALS,</em> which Mary just finds utterly ridiculous.  What is she, a recruiter?</p><p>Through this small segment, Mary learns about the long, tenuous history of the Abbott line and Magical Law Enforcement, and other such things which she finds to be very thinly-veiled bragging.  One sentence even says they've already had apprenticeships with <em>Aurors</em>, for Merlin's sake! Mary probably spent that same summer watching James Dean films and gardening.    </p><p><em>At least nepotism traverses the muggle </em>and<em> magical worlds.</em>           </p><p>“Look,” Mary hears a sigh and raises her head to see Magdalena with a notably grimmer expression on her face. “We know it doesn’t seem like we’ve got a stake in this game.  But our family has been fighting pieces of sh—<em>crap</em> like the people who did this since…well, since before Grindelwald.” She scans the room again. “We’ve got skills that can help you, and I’m sure you’ve all got skills that can help each other.  It’s just about time someone levelled the Quidditch pitch for muggle-born students, because it’s not like the school helps you lot at all.”           </p><p>“You can take our advice or leave it,” adds Evangeline, “it’s of no matter to us.  But we’ll be there on Wednesday, and we’ll be discreet about it.  No one has to know anything about this other than the people in this room.”           </p><p>The entire thing sounds more than a little far-fetched to Mary, but when she turns to look at Lily, she recognizes the look in the other girl’s eyes: she’s staring at the twins with an intensity Mary hasn’t seen since last June. </p><p>Lily wants <em>in</em>, and she’s not going to take no for an answer.           </p><p><em>Guess I’ve got plans Wednesday night,</em> Mary thinks with a grimace, <em>secret muggle-born fighting force, here I come.</em></p><p>
  <em>I just hope Caradoc doesn’t mind me rescheduling our date.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Severus Snape has learned to accept that sometimes, no matter what you do, even the most well-intentioned of actions can yield unpleasant consequences.</p><p>The entire affair with the muggle-borns sits uncomfortably on his conscience like a dreary raincloud, drenching him with the memory of each shout and cry to erupt from each student like individual, freezing droplets.  He knows suspicion has been raised; if he hadn’t been the one to brew the potions necessary, they would have been caught out immediately—not just because of the complex manner in which he went about things, but also, as he’s been reminding himself, because he intentionally brewed the potions weaker; no one would die, of that he is certain.</p><p>And there’s no proof.  He knows that with just as much certainty—there are no tracks left uncovered.</p><p>But the guilt looms on, and with it, the sense that this is the biggest step he’s taken down his current, onyx-colored path.</p><p>It’s as the Others have said: sacrifices must be made when one keeps in mind the greater good.</p><p>Even bearing this all in mind, Severus is not at all surprised when James Potter finds him sitting in the second-floor courtyard at the midnight hour, and he’s even less so when a blow lands on his nose, which had only just turned upward with the rest of his face at the beckoning call of his name.</p><p>“YOU DID THIS!” Potter roars in his face.  As Severus blinks back tears from his eyes—a biological response he regrets—and spits a glob of bloody mucus from his mouth, he realizes he’s being held up by the collar of his shirt. “<em>YOU </em>DID THIS TO THEM!”</p><p>“Interesting you’d say <em>them</em>,” Severus wheezes, “when we both know you only care about one person.”</p><p>Another blow lands, this one to his cheek.  Pain blooms like poppies on the trench of his cheekbone, blood-red and stark in contrast with the soft breeze of the evening, spreading from his right temple down to his jaw.  He spews a curse as his head jerks to the side; the words sail past Potter and dissolve somewhere between the stone pillars and the babbling courtyard fountain.</p><p>The hand gripping his collar lets go, and he lands solidly on cobblestone, disoriented by the suddenness of his fall and waiting to hear the sound of his blood hitting the ground in tiny, clustered droplets.  Harsh breathing, both from himself and Potter above him, fills the seconds in the interim.</p><p><em>I wonder what she’d think of you now,</em> Severus thinks, <em>I wonder what she’d think of who you are</em>.</p><p>He’s not sure for whom the thought is directed—Potter or himself.</p><p>Severus knows he could put up more of a fight—not physically, of course, because (as loathe as he is to admit it) the other boy towers him in physique—but he’s armed with his wand and a slew of dark curses that neither Potter nor Madam Pomfrey would know how to counteract.  He could slice him open, watch him bleed; he could turn all the oxygen in his blood into tiny, pricking needles.  He could cause agony.</p><p>The ringing in Severus’s ears suddenly splits open.  His mind is a chasm of hissed insults and the pant of his own labored breath, but it’s tethered back together by the echoed sound of Lily—sweet, innocent <em>Lily—</em>choking on her own blood; it’s been on loop in his mind since he witnessed it in real-time. </p><p>He wonders if Potter knows that she looked at him, in the Great Hall, right after she coughed up the first bits of scarlet into her hand.  Her eyebrows had furrowed in dizzied confusion, eyes foggy—that would be the Sparrowroot—before she swayed on her feet and collapsed to the floor; the first of so many, but the only one he remembers.  She’d looked right into his eyes and asked him the question she was no longer strong enough to voice: <em>did you do this to me?</em></p><p>He wonders if Potter would hate him more if he knew.</p><p>He certainly hates himself for knowing.</p><p>A sudden shuffling disrupts the lull of the assault, followed by a shout from an annoyingly familiar voice: <em>“James!”</em></p><p><em>Oh, brilliant, </em>Severus thinks, <em>his merry band of misfits are here to finish his work.</em></p><p>“James—let him alone!”</p><p>Alright, that’s a little bit shocking.  But he doesn’t dwell on it, not when James Potter is mucking things up for himself so badly.  Not when he’s proving himself to be everything Severus has always thought him.</p><p>“What,” he snarls, “going to let your pack of underlings stop you?”</p><p>Another fist cocks back, but this time it’s held aloft by two arms, straining against Potter’s obvious desire to bring it down upon Severus’s face.</p><p>“LET—ME—GO.” Potter growls, attempting to shove his friends away.</p><p>“Yes, do let him continue—”</p><p>It’s Sirius Black who cuts him off. “Shut the fuck up, Snivellus, or I swear to God I’ll hex your eyeballs out of your skull.”</p><p>
  <em>Like he even knows how.</em>
</p><p>Severus watches in morbid bemusement as the three boys talk their leader down.  It takes minutes, during which the bleeding starts to subside from Severus’s nose and Potter’s breathing comes out less in brutish grunts and snarls.  It’s the werewolf who does most of the talking, and for that, Severus doesn’t blame them; he’s always been the most logical, for a half-breed.  The short one only bothers to pick up Potter’s wand from where it’s fallen onto the cobblestones.</p><p>
  <em>Useless, as usual, Pettigrew.</em>
</p><p>Eventually, Potter relents, and he backs away, glaring all the while at Severus—who returns it with equal ire.</p><p>“You’re lucky,” Potter hisses, “they came to stop me.  I <em>know</em> you did this, and I’ll prove it.”</p><p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Severus spits back.</p><p>As he moves to stand back up on shaky legs, he finds Lupin in front of him and starts so sharply he nearly tumbles back to the ground.  The werewolf is looking at him with a strange expression on his face.</p><p><em>“What?” </em>Severus snaps as he dusts himself off.</p><p>Lupin pauses briefly before answering, expression contemplative. “I don’t know what you think you’re accomplishing,” he says, “but whatever it is—it’s not worth it.”</p><p>He turns to walk away then, and as Severus moves to follow him, to defend himself, to say something to this boy who he shouldn’t even give heed to at all, Lupin points his wand at him over his shoulder.  Severus braces for a hex—<em>I knew it,</em> he thinks, <em>I knew it.</em></p><p>But no hex comes.</p><p><em>“Episkey,” </em>Severus hears, and with a <em>pop!</em> his nose is back in place and all bleeding has ceased.  He’s left alone with the shadow of his wounds, listening to the water babble in the fountain and letting the wind breeze through his robes, giving way to the chill that runs through his body.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I know, I know! </p><p>Lily's gone /through it/ these past few chapters.  But trust me when I say: she is one of the heroes of this tale, and she is a fucking badass, and she will absolutely show that.  She didn't get the 'brightest witch of her age' title for nothing, and you'll see how that came to be across this story--I swear! Just trust me for a little bit, alright? We had to establish some set-up.</p><p>Also, welcome to our OCs, the Abbott twins! I really wanted some fraternal twin representation in the HP world because JKR only seems to write identical ones?!? If I'm remembering correctly?? DW, they won't take up tooo much of our time, but they're important in Mary and Lily's journey :) :) </p><p>Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed! Drop a comment to let me know what you think, please! I love to read them.  And, as always, come say hi on Tumblr @clare-with-no-i</p><p>Also, an index note: "Augmentum Corpora" roughly translates to "rise bodies" lol I think?? I used a latin translator but that's what the idea was supposed to be </p><p>ILY all! 'Til next time...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Threads That Tether Us</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hogwarts students try to decompress in the wake of the attack, some more than others.  James battles restlessness, and helps a new friend regain hope.  The muggle-born students rally themselves.  Lily makes a few significant decisions in Potions.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>to my sweet, sweet Lilmint, thank you for being so unendingly and aggressively supportive of me always. our convos make me laugh so much.  meeting you through Tumblr has been such a joy! this one is for you, bb!</p><p>and now, the aftermath...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Now no joy but lacks salt,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That is not dashed with pain</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And weariness and fault;</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I crave the stain</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Of tears, the aftermark</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Of almost too much love,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The sweet of bitter bark</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And burning clove.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Robert Frost, <em>To Earthward</em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">March 1977</span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<em>HEY, HEY, MAMA, SAID THE WAY YOU MOVE</em></p><p>
  <em>GONNA MAKE YOU SWEAT, GONNA MAKE YOU GROOVE!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>AH-AH, CHILD, WAY YOU SHAKE THAT THING</em>
</p><p>
  <em>GONNA MAKE YOU BURN, GONNA MAKE YOU STING!”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>By the time the second guitar interlude erupts from the record player, Sirius has broken a sweat from the fervor of his dancing. Remus has already given up any attempt to finish his book; as he looks up at the other boy, he’s almost bowled over by the thought that, in any other world, Sirius Black would probably be a god.</p><p>Raven hair whips around wild grey irises; one leg kicks out, a rock-and-roll jolt of lean muscle that nearly dislodges loafer from foot, before landing sturdily back on deep maroon sheets. His lips are an open-mouthed grin as he chants, “<em>ah, ah, ah, ah, ahhhhh…</em>” and his posture is the low hum of potential energy, shoulders hunched forward, arms spread horizontally, the maestro of an invisible orchestra to accompany the harsh melodies of Jimmy Page’s guitar.</p><p>Remus is a little bit enraptured.</p><p>He thinks this must be the majesty of people like James and Sirius, that shameless self-indulgence that always follows the fabulously wealthy, the ability to occupy so much space so naturally that others become such rapt observers. It’s as though Sirius is the main actor in a life-long play, and himself a silent extra, just hoping to tiptoe around him with enough mustered grace so as not to disrupt the cadence of his performance.</p><p>He likes feeling like an extra, though; at least then he’s a part of the production—oftentimes, especially around the Full, he wonders if all he can do is watch his friends’ lives from the cheap seats.</p><p>As Sirius’s eyes sweep across the room to each of the other Marauders, though, Remus averts his gaze—for some reason, this doesn’t feel like his show to applaud.</p><p>“Figures,” mutters James from his bed, who’s been the unwilling audience for too many Sirius Black Performances to maintain any guise of support, “they’d have a song named <em>Black Dog</em>.”</p><p>Remus silently agrees. It’s beginning to seem like more and more of a mistake, letting James’s parents give Sirius a record player for his birthday, complete with four full-sized records and two forty-fives that have been on a constant loop since he received them. But it was either that or—and this is a frightening prospect—a muggle motorbike.</p><p>Peter, who has his pillow shoved over his face, groans from nearby. “Why didn’t they get him <em>headphones?”</em></p><p>“One muggle device at a time, Wormtail,” replies James somberly. Remus isn’t actually sure that that makes any sense, but it shuts Peter up, nonetheless.</p><p>“C’mon, you knobs!” Sirius hollers during a particularly enthusiastic guitar solo. His hands are miming the movements, though it’s painfully clear he has no actual idea what he’s doing. He’s never picked up a guitar in his life. “Let’s get a groove on!”</p><p>The three other Marauders roll their eyes and leave him to it. It’s been a grueling day, and none of them have any energy left for a nighttime dance party. But Sirius has always been of his own sort.</p><p>“<em>Eyes that shine, burnin’ red—dreams of you all through my head…”</em></p><p>Remus knows that there was a time, long before he or his parents or even grandparents were born, when music was something only full of instruments and devoid of singing. He knows that some of the most lauded symphonies in both muggle- and wizard-borne music rely solely on strings and flutes and large, booming timpani. He’s heard some of it, and it is beautiful, delicate, sometimes arresting—but as Sirius throws his head back, shouting, “<em>Hey baby, oh baby, pretty baby—move me like you’re doin’ now,”</em> he can’t help but think that they didn’t know what they were missing.</p><p>James doesn’t seem to share in his quiet awe. With accuracy honed from years of playing Chaser, he pitches a pillow at Sirius’s face that the other boy only barely manages to dodge, playing it off as a low, back-bending dip that one might see from the likes of Ozzy Osbourne in the midst of a performance of “War Pigs” or “Paranoid.”</p><p>It’s almost a worrying prospect that Sirius can bend that far back with a smile still planted on his face. Remus can’t help but wonder if he’s ever considered that one day, if he goes too far, he might break.</p><p>“For fuck’s sake, can you just get in <em>bed</em> already?!”</p><p>Remus knows that James has been on-edge since the poisoning—hell, Sirius notwithstanding, he’s not sure anyone in the castle has had a relaxed moment since it happened. He remembers the crazed look in James’s eyes when he saw Lily collapse, the way he looked like he was about to faint at the sight of the blood leaking from her mouth. He can still hear James’s scream in the quieter moments of the day.</p><p>
  <em>“Help! Someone, please—please, help her! Dumbledore, McGonagall, please! Anyone!”</em>
</p><p>Remus shivers.</p><p>Everything had run in morbid silence last night, right up until James disappeared with the cloak, which forced himself and Sirius (and Peter, though he didn’t really contribute much to the situation) to run frantically to the still-opened map and follow the <em>James Potter </em>dot as it made its way toward the <em>Severus Snape </em>dot.</p><p>It was a three-person job to pull James off of Snape and keep him from rushing back to deliver more blows. They spent the walk back commiserating in their anger, their feelings of weakness, their fear at the events they’d witnessed. By the time they got back to Gryffindor Tower, the four Marauders were in such dismal states that not a single one of them reacted to the announcement of the cancellation of Monday’s classes.</p><p>“Prongs,” begins Sirius—well, <em>seriously </em>from his bed, “You heard Poppy’s announcement this morning. Everyone’s on their way to a full recovery. They’re going to be fine, and Dumbledore’ll find whoever did this and boot them out. There’s no use in letting this ruin your entire week.”</p><p>“Considering it’s been about twenty hours since it happened, I think it’s a bit rich to accuse me of blowing the event out of proportion.”</p><p>Remus watches as Sirius sighs and jumps up, tucking his legs under him so as to land seated on his bed. The four-poster creaks and groans at the effort of not collapsing inward onto itself, and Sirius, ever attentive to such matters, pats his crimson comforter as a small <em>thank-you</em>.</p><p>“Look,” he says, “that’s not what I’m saying, and you know it. I just think that you’re wasting your time going over it again and again in our room, instead of trying to get out there and curse the Slytherins until they can’t walk.”</p><p>“I think I well took care of that impulse last night, thanks.”</p><p>“Snivellus doesn’t count. There’s a long-standing agreement amongst all upstanding citizens to bash his head in at the first given opportunity.”</p><p>The two boys are across the room from each other, with Peter’s and Remus’s beds in between, so Remus’s gaze bats back and forth between them like he’s watching a tennis match. James serves up a mighty glare in Sirius’s direction, which the other boy returns with a grin.<em> Fifteen-love.</em></p><p>“I just—<em>UGH!”</em> James flops back onto his bed with a mighty groan, except he overshoots the landing, so his head hangs drearily off the edge of the bed and his hair (for once) points all in the same direction: downward. He doesn’t seem to notice. “I need a fag. Or twenty.”</p><p>Remus, Sirius, and Peter exchange worried looks. James doesn’t smoke.</p><p>“Has anyone got a spare James lying around?” Sirius calls to the hallway. “Someone’s nicked ours and replaced it with a defective model.”</p><p>“Oh, piss <em>off!” </em>James heaves himself back right-side-up to chuck a shoe toward Sirius.</p><p>“Make me—mopey git!”</p><p>Sirius has a point, though: James has been uncharacteristically angry since last night, even after the designated few hours they normally give him to settle down when he’s especially incensed. He looks like a kettle ready to boil over. Attacking Snape seemed like enough of a release valve for the latent fury that looked to be singing through his veins, but if he carries on like this…</p><p>Well, Remus doesn’t really want to think about that.</p><p>He knows that of the three of them, Sirius is best suited for this situation. He and James understand each other like they share a mind, like that September day in 1971 wasn’t just the meeting of new friends, but the connecting of missing pieces. They fit together like two halves of a whole.</p><p><em>“Sirius!”</em> He hiss-whispers through gritted teeth. It comes out as mostly <em>s</em>’s and <em>r</em>’s. Once he gets the boy’s attention, he nods toward James, whose head is starting to redden from blood rush.<em>“Sirius. Get—over—there.”</em></p><p>The look Sirius shoots him in return is plain enough: <em>why me?</em></p><p>Remus rolls his eyes. <em>Because you’re you and he’s him.</em></p><p>The two carry on in this silent conversation until Sirius begrudgingly acquiesces. He stands, entire posture irritable, andshuffles his way toward his best friend’s bed.</p><p>“Prongs?” He inquires, poking at the boy’s leg. “Prongs, you alive in there?”</p><p>“Kindly fuck off, Padfoot.”</p><p>Sirius shoots a look back at Remus, accompanied by a shrug. <em>Well, now what?</em></p><p><em>I don’t know, </em>Remus tries to communicate with sweeping hand gestures and frantic rolls of eyes. <em>D</em><em>o something!</em></p><p>It takes another few moments, but he sees the second everything clicks. It’s the cheshire cat grin that spreads slowly across Sirius’s face, the way he peers down at James like a predator at its prey. It’s the way he steps up onto the other boy’s bed, not at all mindful of James’s prone form strewn across it, and proclaims to the room at large:</p><p>“Don’t worry, Prongs, I’ll set you right!”</p><p>With the grace of a ballet dancer, Sirius leaps theatrically off of James’s bed and onto the hardwood floor with a <em>thud</em>. The record player protests with a flicker of sound—<em>careful, please—</em>and Sirius pauses briefly to peer over at it, ostensibly to make sure nothing is scratched or damaged. Remus watches as he nods to himself before making his way to the door. He stops just short and whips around, wand aloft, eyes searing into James’s four-poster.</p><p>“HAVE AT THEE!” He bellows.</p><p>
  <em>I really should have expected this.</em>
</p><p>“Oh, gods,” Remus mutters. He pulls over some spare homework from his desk. He knows exactly what’s about to happen, and he wants no part in it. “Here we go.”</p><p>“Just try to avoid my bed, will you?” Pleads Peter tiredly, though no one pays him any mind.</p><p>Remus has to give Sirius some credit. If there’s any way to pull James out of a strop, it’s with a good, old-fashioned duel.</p><p>When the raven-haired boy throws the first hex—a small thing, unlikely to do much more than sting skin and singe clothes—James nearly overshoots his dive to avoid it, and his head passes centimeters away from colliding with a bedpost.</p><p>“Prongs, for fuck’s sake—your glasses! Put on your bloody glasses if you two are going to duel until you burn the tower down!”</p><p>“Cheers, Moony!”</p><p>James’s eyesight has always been a peculiarity to Remus. The fact that James is largely hopeless without his glasses is the one small blemish on an otherwise markedly flawless human being—funny, charismatic, popular, intelligent. Although he’d absolutely never admit it, Remus quietly considers this to be one of the universe’s great equalizers; if James had perfect eyesight to accompany perfect stature, perfect family, perfect <em>life</em>, he might not be able to stand being in the same room as him.</p><p>But James is hopeless without his glasses.</p><p>One time, right before a Full, James was lying on the grass and staring up at the sky, and Remus went to join him.</p><p>“What are you staring at, Prongs?” He asked as he shuffled down and onto the dewy earth. The Fulls made every feeling tingly and amplified, so when his palm brushed the blades of grass, it sent little shockwaves of sensation shooting up his arms. If he were to place is ear to the ground, he thought he might hear the magma moving beneath the surface.</p><p>“The moon,” replied James softly.</p><p>Remus hummed. James loved and hated the Fulls in a way that neither Sirius nor Peter ever expressed. Sirius loved them, made them into some sort of brotherhood ritual, like Remus being a werewolf was the best thing that ever happened to the four of them (thinking about this for too long made Remus dizzy, so he tried to avoid doing so). Peter hated them obviously yet without complaint; he was always eager to get back in his bed should the opportunity arise, but he was even more eager to garner his friends’ approval.</p><p>James was in between the two, enthusiastic for the liberation of his animagus form, but always the one to rage against the injustice of Remus’s circumstances whenever the Shack came into view. He’d scowled at it this night, like it had personally offended him.</p><p>The two boys laid out on the grass for a few breaths more, hands behind their heads. Remus turned to look at James and saw him squinting up at the sky like it was a complex Quidditch play he’d yet to figure out. Remus remembered, after a moment of scrutinizing, that James never wore his glasses to the Fulls; he didn’t need them as Prongs, and he’d be gutted to lose them out on the grounds.</p><p>“Alright, mate?” Remus asked. He watched James’s chest inflate and deflate to the rhythm of his breathing.</p><p>“Funny thing,” said James, “It’s just a cream-colored blur to me. Like, I know what it looks like—the moon, that is—and I know how important it is, but looking at it right now...it’s just a blob in the sky.”</p><p>That, more than anything, summarized James as a person to Remus. He could stare at the moon and only see a blob, but he knew what the moon meant to Remus—what it <em>did </em>to Remus—so even as the shape of it blurred and fizzled in his gaze, he’d keep watch on it for as long as he could. Remus thought that sometimes James believed he could push it out of the sky altogether just by sheer force of will.</p><p>“That is a funny thing,” said Remus. He patted the other boy’s shoulder before getting up to make his way, slowly, toward the Forbidden Forest. The transformation was imminent, and his body was a woolen jumper three sizes too tight, itchy and constricting.</p><p>The needle jumps on the record as James and Sirius dance around each other on the hardwood floors of the dormitory. The lyrics of “Misty Mountain Hop” skip from <em>“Hey, boy, do you want to score?” </em>to <em>“So I asked them if I could stay awhile,”</em> and the result is an odd hybrid verse born of an unsteady record:<em>“Hey, boy—I could—I could stay awhile.”</em></p><p>Laughing, Sirius throws a stinging hex at James’s kneecaps, and the other boy howls. Remus debates whether or not he should stun them both, if not just to make it through the next song without interruption.</p><p>“You <em>prick!”</em> James shouts, and fires a hex back.</p><p>Remus debates with himself often. He’s quite good at it, in fact, and it’s served him well since arriving at Hogwarts those six years ago. He debates history and sciences, the etymologies of words and the meanings behind spells. He debates about whether it’s right of him to tell Mary that she’s going to fail her Arithmancy assignment if she puts it off for any longer. Sometimes, if he’s too embarrassed to speak them out loud, he’ll even debate his feelings.</p><p>His most long-standing debate is whether or not you can force yourself out of love.</p><p>On one hand, Remus very much does not want to be in it. Love is something for the great, theoretical public, something for those who aren’t forced to transform into monsters once a month. It’s true even in fairytales: love comes for those who are turned from beast to human, not the other way around. Love is for the James Potters and the Sirius Blacks, the polished princes without the scars.</p><p>To be put simply, being in love is not an investment upon which Remus expects to see a return.</p><p>
  <em>But on the other hand…</em>
</p><p>He peers up through blond lashes as his friend (his <em>friend his friend his friend</em>) exchanges half-hearted hexes with James. “Stairway to Heaven” begins to flow from the record player’s small speakers, the plucking of guitar strings and the faint call of woodwinds and maybe the softest that Robert Plant has ever sounded. Sirius’s hair swishes back and forth as he waves his wand.</p><p>Sirius looks like rock music, all electric guitar and crashing cymbals. Remus knows that that’s how he wants people to see him, like a rogue or a Rolling Stone, carefully disheveled and ready to combust at a moment’s notice. People know him as the disavowed heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, the witty vagrant who paints his nails and unknots his tie. They’ve never seen him in him in the small moments, though, the ones he wants to hide. Those that aren’t rock music at all, but ballads, yearning and heartrending.</p><p>From the record player, “Stairway to Heaven” continues.</p><p>“<em>'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings,” </em>Robert Plant sings, <em>“In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings; sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.”</em></p><p>Sirius leaps gleefully over an incoming curse. “Missed me again, Prongs!” He gloats. “Just pretend I’m a bit of poisoned candy floss! You’re sure to get me then!”</p><p><em>“</em><em>You little</em>—<em>!</em><em>”</em></p><p>This comment sparks Remus’s attention, and not just because of how ludicrously insensitive it is. “A bit of <em>what?”</em></p><p>The two boys pause in their insult- and curse-throwing and turn to face him. He sets his paper down at the intensity of their gazes, one on each side of him.</p><p>“You know,” says James slowly, “the candy floss? From yesterday?”</p><p>Sirius nods. “Muggle-born students bleeding out the mouth? Vomiting? Collapsing? Any of this ringing a bell, Moony, or should we be on the lookout for an eerily lifelike mannequin version of yourself who attended supper in your stead?”</p><p>“Shut up a minute, Padfoot.” Remus ignores the kicked-puppy look Sirius gives him. “You lot think the <em>candy floss </em>did that?”</p><p>“Well, didn’t it?” Peter asks from his bed, rising dazedly to sit up and prop himself up on his exorbitant number of pillows.</p><p>“Yes,” James insists, “it did.”</p><p>“No, it didn’t. I’m sure of it.” Remus says.</p><p><em>“What?”</em> Sirius and James ask in discomfiting unison.</p><p>James puts his wand away. “What do you mean, you’re ‘sure of it’?”</p><p>“I <em>am </em>sure of it. I ate some candy floss, too, don’t you remember? And I didn’t get poisoned.”</p><p>“You—<em>Moony!”</em></p><p>Remus rolls his eyes, turning back to his various rolls of parchment. “I’m clearly fine, Padfoot. I think we’d know by now if I was poisoned.” He reads over his Arithmancy assignment, which he would have turned in a few hours ago if they’d had classes. “But there you go, lads. Mystery solved—wasn’t the candy floss.”</p><p>There’s a tumult of noise like multiple sets of feet clambering gracelessly upon wood floors, and when Remus looks up once more from his work, he’s staring into the concerned eyes of his three best mates. The concerned eyes of his best mates, who are, presently, mere millimeters from his own face.</p><p>“OI!” He yelps, flailing in equal parts shock and desire to create some sort of space between himself and the three other Marauders, “would you—<em>some boundaries, please!”</em></p><p>“You seem fine,” muses James as he inspects Remus’s face with narrowed eyes, “he does seem fine, doesn’t he, Padfoot?”</p><p>“Certainly <em>looks</em> fine!” Sirius agrees. He places a hand palm-up on Remus’s forehead, which he’s not sure is going to be a reliable measure, because he’s sure he must be blushing fantastically at all of this attention. Sirius switches over to palm-face-down. Then back up. This continues for another few seconds until he announces: “no fever!”</p><p>Peter, who’s just moved to sit behind Remus, pokes his back sharply between the shoulder blades.</p><p>“OW!” Remus squawks. “Do you <em>mind?!”</em></p><p>“Spine seems alright!”</p><p>“That’s really not how you—”</p><p>“Any vomiting, Moony?” James sits down on his bed (<em>“watch the books, James, for Merlin’s sake!”</em>) and looks accusingly at Remus’s stomach, like he might catch it conspiring against the rest of his body. “Any coughing? Stomachaches? Irregular bowel movements?”</p><p>“I abjectly refuse to talk about my shitting habits with any of you, thanks.”</p><p>“The question, Moony! Answer it!”</p><p>“Fucking—<em>no, </em>everything’s been fine, no <em>irregular </em>anything, so would you just—<em>OW, </em>Peter!”</p><p>The sound of Peter shuffling off of his bed is a drizzle on the rising flames of Remus’s annoyance.</p><p>“Sorry, sorry!” The small boy holds his hands up once he’s stood upright and within Remus’s line of vision. “Lower spine’s fine, too—in case you were wondering.”</p><p>“Okay, that is <em>really not how you</em>—”</p><p>“Sod it all,” declares Sirius, also rising to stand and relieving some of the weight off of Remus’s now-slightly-crushed homework, “I say we take him to Poppy regardless.”</p><p>“I agree. Moony, hop to, you’re going on a little trip to the Wing.”</p><p>“Fuck off,” he grumbles, “I’m obviously completely fine. You’re all just hovering about over nothing.”</p><p>“Now, you <em>listen</em>—” begins Sirius, but James cuts him off. There’s a growing expression of horror taking over his face, one feature at a time, furrowing and wrinkling and tugging down.</p><p>“Wait just a minute.” He looks at all of them, each one individually, like he’s scanning them for information that they clearly don’t have. “If the candy floss didn’t poison them...<em>what did?”</em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Judging Marlene McKinnon is a full-contact sport—and one that few have tried without bearing the brunt of the repercussions. She’s not one to take criticisms for how she lives her life; she’s certainly not one to lower herself to the point of listening to the mindless gossip of the Hogwarts Rumor Mill. No, anyone who finds it within themselves to pass a judgment on her should look out, because she certainly won’t shy away from bodily retaliation.</p><p>This is all a bit of a moot point, though, when the two people doing the judging are already sitting prone in the Hospital Wing and sipping healing potions like smoothies.</p><p>“I cannot <em>believe,</em>” Marlene whines, “that you two are <em>literally</em> lying in hospital beds, and you’re trying to talk to me about my <em>sex life!”</em></p><p>“Better than talking about how shite the food is, I suppose,” shrugs Dorcas from next to her.</p><p>Dorcas, Marlene, and Alice trotted into the Hospital Wing about thirty minutes ago for the fourth time in two days, arms laden with Honeydukes sweets and rolls. Madam Pomfrey is getting increasingly tired of them the more they appear at the Wing. Marlene chooses to take this as confirmation that it’s the right thing to do.</p><p>“Oh, come on, Marly,” Lily pleads, “we’ve not got anything better to talk about.”</p><p>The words <em>maybe the whole poison incident</em> sit like anvils on Marlene’s tongue. But she keeps them to herself—with no information from Dumbledore about the origins of the poison or the culprit, all bringing it up would do is upset everyone. And right now? That’s the last thing the girls need.</p><p>“Oh, <em>alright,</em>” Marlene concedes at length.</p><p>Mary and Alice cheer. Dorcas looks on at Marlene with unveiled mirth. <em>Sucker</em>, her eyes say.</p><p>Marlene sighs, looking heavenward. If she blinks enough, she thinks she might see the word <em>sucker </em>written up on the ceiling, too. “What do you want to know?”</p><p>This is the wrong thing to say. By the time she gets the last word out, the floodgates have been opened, and Marlene is searching for a wayward raft to buoy her against the tide.</p><p>“When did it start?”</p><p>“Who initiated it?”</p><p>“Is he any good?”</p><p>“You’re using a protection charm, right?”</p><p>“Have you done it in his room? In <em>o</em><em>urs?”</em></p><p>“Are you going to start dating, or what?”</p><p>The last one makes her gag, which puts a momentary cease and desist to the onslaught.</p><p>“Alright, alright!” She holds her hands up like the words might bounce off of them and fly back at their faces. It is to no avail. They hang in the air like the wisps of light that arrive after a particularly laborious spell. “Merlin, Agrippa, Godric, and the lot! Control yourselves, women!”</p><p>A hush befalls the girls, excited and smug in equal measure. Marlene’s not used to being on the receiving end of such a silence. She wants to tear a hole in it and climb through, come out the other side.</p><p>“<em>First </em>of all,” she huffs, “we are absolutely <em>not </em>dating, <em>will not </em>be dating, and cannot even <em>conceive </em>the very idea of dating one another—”</p><p>“Odd, considering you two’ve apparently no problem with <em>conceiving</em>.”</p><p>“Hush up, Meadowes, or you get no story at all.”</p><p>“Sorry, sorry…”</p><p>“Anyway—it started a few weeks back, he came into the Common Room one morning when I was prepping for a Charms practical, and he just sort of…” the words to describe the exchange elude her. <em>Made a joke about how fit I was? </em>Now, <em>that </em>would be something to explain. “Well, he just sort of <em>asked</em>, I suppose. And <em>bloody hell. </em>I mean, he can be a twat, but fuck me if he isn’t fit as anything.”</p><p>Mary nods at once. “Understandable,” she says.</p><p>“He is very handsome,” agrees Alice kindly.</p><p>“I guess I get it,” says Lily.</p><p>“Ugh,” is all Dorcas contributes, and that settles that.</p><p>Marlene continues once the matter of Sirius’s attractiveness has been thoroughly sorted. She elaborates that <em>yes</em>, of course she’s using protection, <em>yes, </em>he is actually quite good, and finally, <em>no, </em>she will not be disclosing the locations where they’ve had sex.</p><p>“Oh, gross!” Mary protests with a sour expression. “That means you <em>have </em>done it in our room!”</p><p>“Calm down, Mary.” Lily tugs the sheets to her chest and flattens them idly with a sweeping palm. “He can’t go into our room, remember? What’s she supposed to do, carry him up the stairs?” Alice, Dorcas, and Marlene all laugh uproariously at the thought of this, while Mary simply looks a bit embarrassed for having forgotten. Marlene leans over to pat her hand in consolation.</p><p>Small conversations break out amongst the group after this, some about the wake of the attack Sunday, some just mundane chatter. Lily reaches over to grab her cup of ice chips and begins to munch quietly. Marlene winces in sympathy; from what she and Mary have said, the whole ordeal left a burning in their throats that still hasn’t fully gone away.</p><p><em>If I find out who did this, </em>she seethes as Lily swallows and coughs lightly, <em>I’m going to tear them to shreds and dance on the scraps.</em></p><p>“That whole <em>no boys allowed </em>thing<em>—</em>well, it’s to prevent any sex from happening, isn’t it?” Dorcas asks the group suddenly, ceasing all other conversation. Multiple sets of eyes blink curiously at her.</p><p>“Presumably,” Marlene replies.</p><p>“Well,” adds Mary, “that and the fact that boys are perverts. Don’t want them seeing us in our knickers when we’re changing.”</p><p>“Right, right—but I’d guess it’s mostly for the sex bit, right?”</p><p>Lily’s forehead creases. “I mean…I suppose so.”</p><p>Doras nods at this. She sits for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to continue this particular train of conversation, before leaning forward in her chair, almost to the point that it tips onto two legs. Her smile is wicked.</p><p>“So…they’ve just never considered lesbians then, have they?”</p><p>It’s Marlene that laughs first, because <em>of course </em>Dorcas would say shit like this, and <em>of course </em>she’s right, and <em>of course </em>it’s the funniest thing Marlene’s heard in days. She howls like she’s not sitting in an infirmary, and after a beat, the other girls all follow, bowled over by the absurdity.</p><p>Marlene slaps her hand down on the fabric next to her arm, which happens to be the side of Mary’s bed. She chances a peek at the other girl. Mary’s laughing, yes, but she looks uncomfortable, and her laughter is the polite kind Marlene used to use at big, family gatherings.</p><p>“Mary,” she says softly, “are you—”</p><p>In what can only be described as a mercy killing of Marlene’s question, Madam Pomfrey appears at Mary’s bedside wearing a grim, troubled frown, and it’s like Marlene can see the joy dissipate from the room, like credits rolling on a muggle film, the type she’d seen with Mary every summer since they met. <em>And...scene. Fade to black.</em></p><p>“Ladies,” she says, and Marlene braces herself for the inevitable <em>I’m going to have to ask you to either silence yourselves or exit,</em> but it never comes.</p><p>Instead, the lines on her face deepen as she passes a glance to each of the Gryffindor girls. She look almost...sad?</p><p>“Sorry, Madam Pomfrey,” Dorcas says through her laughter, “we’ll quiet down.”</p><p>But Madam Pomfrey just shakes her head. “No, no. I’m not here about that.” She turns to face Lily and Mary, face solemn. “You two are being discharged tomorrow afternoon. I should have you all healed up by then.”</p><p>Mary looks at her dubiously, presumably due to the woman’s grave expression. “Right...and this is...bad news?”</p><p>Madam Pomfrey opens her mouth to respond, but Lily butts in with a demanding tone, eyes nearly frantic. “So, they figured out what happened to us, then? They’ve expelled whoever did it?”</p><p>Even thirty seconds prior Marlene would not have thought it possible, but at Lily’s words, Madam Pomfrey’s expression deepens.</p><p>“That’s why I came to talk to you two,” she says, and she eyes the three other girls briefly before shaking her head, like she’s deciding whether or not she should kick them out but can’t deem it worthy of her time, “I have some...well, I have some rather bad news.”</p><p>* * *</p><p>When Marlene was four, her mother sent her to a mediwitch in London to deal with her tantrums. <em>Frequent</em>, Alessandra McKinnon described them to the witch with an unsubtly displeased glance at her daughter, <em>nearly ceaseless</em>. Loud. Disruptive. The witch nodded.</p><p>Marlene spent nearly twenty minutes playing with stuffed centaurs and bandicoots in a tan-walled room before the witch came over to introduce herself. She said her name was Cynthia. She had a kind smile, one that told Marlene, <em>you’re safe here, </em>and not, <em>we’ll fix you. </em>Marlene didn’t want to be fixed.</p><p>“Hi, Miss Cynthia,” she said, sitting up straight like her parents had taught her, “I’m Marlene.”</p><p>Her mother left after that, apparated back to the house, probably to tend to one of Marlene’s older brothers. They never got sent to mediwitches when they had tantrums, just given whatever it was they had been tantrum-ing for, handed over quietly so they’d stop screaming and let their parents alone. Marlene told Cynthia this in the tan-walled room. Cynthia nodded.</p><p>“Marlene,” she said, “when something makes you really angry, what do you feel?”</p><p>“I feel…” it was hard to describe what she felt. Sometimes it felt like fire, rising up in licking flames from the bottoms of her feet all the way to her hair. Sometimes it felt like the ground spinning. “I feel a <em>lot</em>.”</p><p>This seemed acceptable enough to Cynthia. “And is there some<em>one</em> or some<em>thing</em> that makes you feel ‘a lot’?”</p><p>Marlene thought about this. “My brothers,” she said, “and sometimes mummy and daddy.”</p><p>“And what do they do to make you feel this way?”</p><p>Marlene knew the answer to this. This one was easy.</p><p>“They don’t listen.” When Cynthia nodded, she said more, because it seemed like she was supposed to, and a little bit because she wanted to. “They listen to each other, and they talk all the time, but they never listen to <em>me.</em>”</p><p>“That must be frustrating.”</p><p>When she started the last word, Marlene became acutely nervous, because <em>frus </em>sounded unfamiliar, and there were only so many big words she could keep track of. But she let out a breath at the end, because she knew <em>frustrating.</em>Mummy called her <em>frustrating </em>sometimes. She knew it wasn’t very good.</p><p>“Yes,” she agreed, “it is, Miss Cynthia.”</p><p>Cynthia conjured a box of small cloth shapes then, each one a different color. Squares and circles and triangles. She set them down in front of where Marlene was sitting, delicately, drawing her eyes to follow them until the box hit the floor. She grabbed a few in her palm; one a dark purple, the other a light, daytime yellow. It reminded Marlene of her dayroom walls when the sun was on them.</p><p>“Have you ever seen these before?” Cynthia asked.</p><p>Marlene shook her head.</p><p>“These are called <em>sensum</em><em> cloths</em>. We’ll sometimes give them to babies, because they’re too young to tell us how they feel.”</p><p>“I’m not a <em>baby!” </em>Marlene protested, red-cheeked.</p><p>“No, I know that,” Cynthia placated her with a smile. “But you sometimes feel so much, you can’t even think of the words to say what you want to, right?”</p><p>“…Right.”</p><p>Cynthia placed a small, red circle into Marlene’s palm. It felt like a small cushion. In her own, she took a purple square. “I think these are going to help you, Marlene. When we squeeze these, they say what we’re thinking out loud—even if we can’t make sense of it ourselves. Do you understand?”</p><p>Marlene nodded, but she was still unsure. Cynthia smiled that <em>you’re safe </em>smile again, so Marlene smiled back, because she was even allowed to not know things here. That was quite nice.</p><p>“I’ll go first—okay?” Cyntha closed her fist around the small cloth and squeezed. A small wisp of purple smoke rose from in between her fingers, and then words appeared, all capitals and in the same shade of purple: <em>YOU’RE A VERY NICE GIRL MARLENE</em>, they said, which she knew because Cynthia read them aloud. She squealed at the praise, exceedingly pleased.</p><p>“I want you to squeeze it in your hand <em>really </em>hard for me, alright, Marlene?”</p><p>With a smile, Marlene obeyed, and squeezed the small circle with all her considerable four-year-old might. She even squeezed her eyes shut, too, because she thought it might help.</p><p>When she opened her eyes, Cynthia was looking a few feet above her hand, where wisps of red smoke had formed big, capital-letter words.</p><p><em>I did it! </em>Marlene thought giddily.</p><p>She flicked her gaze over to Cynthia’s face, where—to her confusion—tears were starting to form in the witch’s eyes. She was staring at Marlene’s words, and Marlene stared at them too, but she didn’t know what they said.</p><p>“What’s wrong, Miss Cynthia?” Marlene asked. She racked her brain for a reason that what her cloth said might have upset the woman. “Did my words say a swear?”</p><p>“They say—” Cynthia took a moment to clear her throat, and when she spoke, her voice was gravelly and wet, “—Marlene, they say ‘I’m afraid Mummy won’t come back to get me’.”</p><p>* * *</p><p>Marlene wishes she had a box of sensum cloths with her now, because she can’t read Lily’s face for the life of her, and the length of the girl’s ongoing silence is beginning to frighten her.</p><p><em>Unable to find a source of the poison, </em>Madam Pomfrey said, <em>Dumbledore tested both the mysterious candy floss and the notes received by muggle-born students, and neither contained any dark magic or poisons. </em></p><p>She still can’t believe it. When pressed about whether or not they’d even pulled aside any students for questioning, Madam Pomfrey faltered, citing a ‘lack of evidence,’ only able to give vague placations and allusions to some sort of ‘ongoing investigation,’ which Marlene thinks is hippogriff shit. Each word sounded like it came straight from the Headmaster’s office, or maybe, more accurately, the Minister of Magic’s.</p><p>“Fucking hell,” breathes Dorcas, the first one of them to say anything since Madam Pomfrey departed for another student’s bed, “this is...this is bad.”</p><p>“I can’t believe…” Alice doesn’t even finish her thought; instead, she lifts a shaking hand to her mouth, stifling a small sniffle.</p><p>Something boils over in Marlene. It’s a bit like anger, but it feels <em>deeper</em>, somehow. Older. Entrenched in her bone marrow. Seared behind her eyelids.</p><p>“Fuck this,” she says. Three heads turn toward her. “Fuck this,” she repeats.</p><p>She turns to Mary and Lily. “We’ll do something. We’ll talk to Dumbledore—there <em>must </em>be something else going on, something we don’t know. He wouldn’t just let this by, I know he wouldn’t—”</p><p>Out of all things to cut her off, what she isn’t expecting is the sound of Lily’s laughter. It’s not how it sounded a few minutes ago, though, loud and slightly hiccuping and coming straight from her chest. This laughter is more like a series of scoffs all lined up one after another. There’s no emotion in it; no <em>Lily</em>.</p><p>“Don’t you get it?” Lily asks. When Marlene catches her eye, she has to stifle the gasp that nearly explodes out of her. Lily’s eyes—there’s no real way to describe them, other than...other than <em>dead</em>.</p><p>“Get what?”</p><p>“It’s over.” Lily puts down the cup of ice chips, which Marlene didn’t notice she was still holding. “It’s done. They’re not going to do anything.”</p><p>Alarm bells go off. This isn’t like Lily. Marlene shoots equally panicked looks at Dorcas, Alice, and Mary, who return them with panicked looks of their own.</p><p>“Lily—”</p><p>“No.” It’s an odd mixture to see on Lily’s face, this swirling tide of resignation and stubbornness. It doesn’t suit her. Marlene wants to wipe it off. “This is it. We’re—” she gestures between herself and Mary, “—on our own now. We muggle-borns have to fend for ourselves.”</p><p>“That’s not true, Lily,” Alice insists, “you know we’re here for you. We <em>all </em>are.”</p><p>Marlene nods her agreement emphatically, and she sees Dorcas doing the same.</p><p>“Fuck them,” Dorcas submits. “Whoever they are, they won’t get to you again.”</p><p>At this, it’s Mary who pipes up, this time with a scoff. “Oh, please,” she says, “we know perfectly well who it was. They traipse around the castle just waiting for their little Lord to call upon them.”</p><p>“Are you sure?” Of course, it makes sense to Marlene, but it’s quite an accusation to make. “You think this was the Slytherin boys?”</p><p>“I know it.” Mary sounds more sure than she has of anything recently. When Marlene looks over at Dorcas, the girl looks not just a little heartbroken, though the emotion seems to be at war with fury.</p><p>“Well, alright. If it’s—”</p><p>Lily shuts her eyes like the light of the room is suddenly too bright. “I think you all should leave now,” she murmurs.</p><p>“Lily…”</p><p>Marlene looks at Mary—Mary her best friend, Mary her confidant, but Mary the muggle-born as well—for direction, but the girl just shakes her head and lies back down, face pinched as though she were in terrible pain.</p><p>The three girls get up from their seats and begin to file their way out of the Hospital Wing. Not for the first time, Marlene wants very badly to scream.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Professor McGonagall takes about as kindly to James’s fifth approach during this Tuesday morning Transfiguration lesson as she has to his first, second, third, and fourth. Which is to say—not very.</p><p>“And might I ask what it is <em>now, </em>Mr. Potter?” She sighs without looking up from a large, weathered book with fraying parchment and slanted cursive text.</p><p>James blinks for a second, because he hasn’t any idea how she knew it was him getting up from his desk, but very quickly decides that this isn’t exactly worth bringing up. Not while he’s got more important business, after all.</p><p>“I was wondering—”</p><p>“What I hope,” she interrupts, “is that you aren’t here to ask me anything else with regard to this past weekend’s attack.” Finally, she glances up at him, and the shine that hits her glasses cuts her irises into catlike slits. “Because if you were doing so, I would be forced to repeat myself that I am not at liberty to speak on such matters with students, which is something that I seem to remember hearing myself say at least seven times since the beginning of the lesson.”</p><p>After a brief moment of pondering how best to communicate that that is precisely what he was going to ask, James settles upon: “Four times at the most, I’d reckon.”</p><p>Professor McGonagall looks back down at her book. One of her hands twitches noticeably toward her wand.</p><p>“I’d advise you to sit down before I decide that I’m in need of a live model upon which I can demonstrate today’s lesson.”</p><p>James blanches slightly. Today’s lesson is transfiguring solids into liquids.</p><p>“Duly noted. Always a pleasure, professor.”</p><p>“How I wish I could say the same, Mr. Potter.”</p><p>Utterly admonished, James trots back to his seat next to Sirius and puts his head on crossed arms with a groan. He takes care not to look at the multiple empty desks where muggle-born students should be sitting.</p><p>“I take it she gave you nothing?” Sirius asks.</p><p>“Nothing with a side order of fuck-all.”</p><p>“Brill. Luckily, we can add that to our already grotesquely large pile of <em>fuck-all</em> and maybe trade it in for a box of Bott’s.”</p><p>“Please don’t be clever right now,” James sighs from the cage of his arms. The words bounce off the wood of the desk and wobble listlessly back into his own ears.</p><p>“I can’t just turn off my boyish charm, Prongs. It’s like asking the sun to stop shining.”</p><p>“Right, terribly sorry. Rude of me.”</p><p>“Quite.”</p><p>James lifts his head from the desk and peers at the lesson’s project, which he and Sirius finished approximately seven minutes after McGonagall had announced it. What had been a quill is now a quill-colored liquid sitting nicely in a glass jar. For people who’d become animagi the year previous, transfiguration assignments are just...too simple.</p><p>The quill-water stares back at him. It’s nearly an insult to Marauder talents, it is.</p><p>“Moony,” he calls despondently to the desk in front of him, where Remus is dutifully reading a <em>History of Magic </em>textbook. “Have you heard anything useful?”</p><p>Remus doesn’t even turn around. “Prongs, I’ve been with you practically every minute since Sunday evening. When could I possibly have had time to do secret reconnaissance?”</p><p>James blinks. “You went to the loo at least twice, didn’t you?”</p><p>“I’m going to start ignoring you now.”</p><p>“I hear they’re sending Mad-Eye Moody here early,” comes a voice from James’s left, and he turns to meet it. To his most unpleasant surprise, Amos Diggory has pulled up his chair to James and Sirius’s desk and is currently sitting with his hands behind his head, as though lounging at a pub and preparing himself to call over a barkeep with some sort of inappropriate nickname. <em>Oi, sweetheart, another pint!</em></p><p>James and Sirius share a brief look: <em>who invited him?</em></p><p>Amos adds: “I’d bet he’s not even coming for the seventh-year defense practicals anymore—probably just going to sniff around the students.”</p><p>“I hear they’re sending a whole army of Aurors to deal with the recent uptick in brown-nosing Hufflepuffs,” Sirius replies flatly, “so you’d better watch out there.”</p><p>“Oh, piss up a rope, Black.” Amos rolls his eyes. “You and your bum boys haven’t got a monopoly on being angry about Sunday. Now, tell me—are you lot planning on doing anything about it?”</p><p><em>Probably</em>. “No,” James asserts.</p><p>“Well, do you at least know anything useful?” He looks pointedly at James, who can’t help but think that he resembles some sort of mole. Maybe an opossum. “Potter, I heard someone had a scrap with Severus Snape late on Sunday evening. Don’t suppose you’d know anything about <em>that</em>.”</p><p>“What are you implying, Diggory?” Asks Remus, who has just turned around, and is sporting a suspicious expression aimed at Diggory that says, <em>you’re not the only prefect here, </em><em>so watch it</em>.</p><p>“All I’m saying is that if you all know something about who did this and you’re not telling the rest of us, you’re just delaying them all getting punished. Pretty shit way of helping the muggle-borns.”</p><p>“Aaaand <em>time!”</em> Sirius exclaims, which causes Amos to whip toward him in confusion. “Sorry, chap—your not-fucking-off pass has <em>just </em>expired! Better luck next time!”</p><p>“Oh, go fuck yo—”</p><p>“<em>Beep! Beep! </em>There goes the buzzer, I reckon. Amos, mate, you’d better get out now, it’s just going to get worse—<em>Beeeeeeeep!”</em></p><p>Amos looks at James like he might ward Sirius off and ask him to stay for a chat. No one ever looks at Remus like that, James thinks. Probably because they know he’s got too much sense to even care. He would have checked out mentally around the time when Sirius started <em>beeping</em>.</p><p>James just shrugs. Amos opens his mouth to protest, which is really just not what James needs right now.</p><p>“I regret to inform you that this is now officially a confidential Marauder conversation, Diggory,” he says coolly before the Hufflepuff boy can get a word out, “so you’ve got approximately four seconds to get your apparition license and make use of it.”</p><p>“Or <em>what?”</em></p><p>Now, <em>this</em> is the type of emotional outlet James Potter has been waiting for.</p><p>Amos Diggory is low-hanging fruit, really, with his obnoxious attitude and his prefect superiority complex, but he’s fruit all the same.</p><p>And James <em>really </em>needs this.</p><p>He spares Sirius one fleeting <em>no you can’t stop me from doing this</em> glance (met by a beleaguered <em>please can we leave the small things to the small people</em> glance) before turning to stare at the Hufflepuff boy with arms folded across his chest.</p><p>“Well, Ames—can I call you <em>Ames?</em>” James doesn’t give him time enough to respond before he continues. “You see Ames, here’s my problem: seeing as I <em>just</em> started my subscription to <em>Teen Witch </em><em>Quarterly</em> the other afternoon—and don’t get too jealous, old boy, I’ll save all the hygiene charm pages especially for you—I’ve just about reached my monthly quota for the insufferable, tittering gossip types like yourself.”</p><p>He pauses briefly to let the words sink in, and Amos looks ready to be offended, so he plows on with a downright genial grin. “So I’d really<em>—really</em>—suggest you begin the process of minding your own affairs before I get properly annoyed with you and decide to set some sort of unfortunate, avoidable precedent.”</p><p>The Hufflepuff boy sputters briefly for a moment, something to the tune of <em>how dare—I can’t—you little—</em>before gathering his things and walking away briskly. After taking a moment to steady his breath, James turns to see Sirius looking at him with a grin.</p><p>“Dynamite bloke, he is,” James notes to the group.</p><p>Remus nods thoughtfully. “Top shelf bloody twat, I’d say.”</p><p>“Knob,” contributes Peter, and he and Remus turn back to continue their respective readings. James thinks Peter should well have finished <em>A Thousand Ways to Smash a Bishop </em>by now.</p><p>He places his focus back where it’s been all morning: what to do about the Slytherin boys. He knows they’re behind the attack on Sunday, and he’s sure that the teachers have at least <em>some</em> suspicions (his fourteen anonymous owls to Dumbledore notwithstanding), so it’s maddening to think that he hasn’t heard of any sort of resolution from McGonagall yet. Or, now that he thinks about it, from anyone.</p><p>Sirius nudges his elbow. James turns to look at his best mate.</p><p>“While I must say I enjoyed that rousing display,” Sirius says, “I think your anger might have been a bit...<em>misdirected.</em>”</p><p>“I’ve no idea what you’re trying to say.”</p><p>“Fair enough. Decided on pressing down the emotions and hoping they go away?”</p><p>“Just about, yeah.”</p><p>“Sound. It’s worked well for me thus far.”</p><p>Possibly eager to avoid the glaring untruth of this statement, or maybe just hoping to further bask in the creativity of James’s verbal assault on poor Amos, Sirius rounds back with an easy smirk. “Diggory looked like he was about to shit himself.”</p><p>“I think he thought I might hex him,” James agrees.</p><p>This perks Sirius up immediately. “Ooh, <em>would you?</em> We haven’t done a good hexing in ages. I’m beginning to think we’re losing our touch.”</p><p>“Padfoot, how <em>dare </em>you!” James hisses. “Upon my honor, we’re doing nothing of the sort!”</p><p>At this proclamation, Remus and Peter turn around as if summoned. Both sport thoughtful expressions.</p><p>“Must say, Prongs,” muses Remus, “he has a point. Our last bit of organized nonsense was no less than a month ago.”</p><p>“Four and a half weeks, to be exact,” Peter adds.</p><p>There’s some part of James’s brain that knows that this is a very blatant attempt by the boys to distract him from his brooding. This part is tired, though, and overworked, and the bait is just too tantalizing to pass up.</p><p>Plus, he realizes, what they’re saying might actually be true.</p><p>“You’re kidding.” He states. Three heads shake.</p><p>James can do nothing but gape. There’s no way. There’s just...<em>no way.</em></p><p>But then, as he thinks on it, there absolutely is: he’d been swamped with Quidditch practices up until mid-February, and the planning for the Cup match against Ravenclaw in April has been consuming him as of late, and all of this on top of his constant low-level rumination on the Evans Situation. Not to mention this past weekend, which had dried up any sort of humor in his body, right up until Poppy confirmed every student’s eventual full recovery yesterday morning.</p><p>The truth covers him from head to toe, slowly, like an icy blanket. He hasn’t had a mind for mischief since...dear Godric, since <em>Valentine’s Day</em>. And it’s his birthday in two weeks, for Agrippa’s sake.</p><p>“Merlin’s <em>arsehole!”</em> James cries. Multiple heads swivel in his direction. “It’s true!”</p><p>Professor McGonagall’s voice arrests his panic from the front of the room. The threat of liquefaction underlies her tone. “Potter! That’ll be detention on Saturday for swearing!”</p><p>“Sorry, Professor!”</p><p>The new detention barely registers in his mind past the fleeting thought of, <em>another tally for the chalkboard—I think I’m about to pass Sirius</em>. He waves his hands quickly to gather the rest of the Marauders in a small, compact huddle.</p><p>“<em>Lads.</em>” he hisses. “Lads, we’re downright behind on marauding. I’ll take the blame for this, but it’s needless to say we need to hop to some grade-A troublemaking as soon as possible.”</p><p>“Seconded,” whispers Sirius, though there’s no real reason for him to be whispering, as no one in the lesson is paying him mind.</p><p>Peter nods feverishly. “It would probably boost morale,” he adds.</p><p>“Any ideas?” Remus inquires with a characteristically studious expression, one that is completely misplaced in the context of such a discussion.</p><p>“What if we do something at supper one night? Maybe make a pie explode” Peter suggests.</p><p>All heads swivel toward him. Under the heat of three distinctly displeased gazes, it takes him but a moment of visible contemplation to realize his mistake. A flush sprinkles across his face like pox.</p><p>“...Right. Mealtimes are off-limits. Sorry.”</p><p>“Cracking bit of tact there, Wormtail.”</p><p>“I said <em>sorry</em>, Padfoot!”</p><p>“Gentlemen,” James whispers, “we’ve not got time for this. Peter, mate, try and think a bit before you speak, yeah?”</p><p>“Achievable goals, please, Prongs,” says Sirius.</p><p>“<em>Hey—”</em></p><p>James snaps his fingers as a thought hits him. “What about the Auror they’re sending? Moody?”</p><p>“What about him?” Remus asks.</p><p>“Well, I think we should give him no less than a proper <em>Marauder</em> welcome.”</p><p>The boys grin at him in satisfied response, and he settles back easily into his chair to continue his lazy reading until the end of the lesson. Remus and Peter turn around as well, seemingly planning the same. Sirius begins to whistle quietly next to him.</p><p>The plans are set. He’s a leader once again, and a part of the world, even if small, is under his control. He’ll do something and people will laugh. The world has equilibrium.</p><p>His eyes trace the room in an easy daze, but stop midway to the door.</p><p>From this angle, he’s facing the desk where Mary and Marlene usually sit, but today, it’s just Marlene. Dorcas sits at the desk next to her. It’s the only class where she’s at the front, because she shares with Lily, but this time the other seat is pushed up against the desk, and James can’t help it, but the thought that they didn’t even bother to pull out Lily’s chair makes him inexplicably furious.</p><p>“You’ve five minutes left to complete your projects!” Announces McGonagall from the front of the room.</p><p>James feels a pulse in his bloodstream, something that chokes itself at the base of his throat. Sirius sends him a curious glance as he picks up his quill and begins to etch small lines into the wood of the desk. The sound of it is shrill and irritating.</p><p>Lily and Mary are still in the Hospital Wing with the other muggle-born students. They’re being discharged in a few hours. There’s no reason to have pulled out a chair for them if everyone knew they weren’t coming. But still, despite this, he’s fuming.</p><p>Something pulls at the corners of this anger, and it sits behind his eyes, so it might be guilt. He knows, logically, that his guilt is useless—he wasn’t a part of the attack, and he can’t prove that he knows who did it. Even if he could, he’s already tried to tell Dumbledore, but nobody seems to be listening, so it’s all just a circle of uselessness, tired and dizzying and ceaseless.</p><p>His quill has scratched deep enough to expose a lighter wood underneath the chestnut-colored varnish of the desk. Coffee-colored shavings are beginning to pile up next to the small fissure. Only a minute ago, he was planning a prank with his friends. It might be less than that. Thirty seconds, even.</p><p>This thought sits behind his eyes too, dense and uncomfortable. He was planning a prank with his friends, and Lily and Mary are still in the Hospital Wing, and as far as he’s aware, there’s not been one expulsion since Sunday. His arms and legs feel heavier, weighed down, tethered. He needs to do <em>something</em>.</p><p>James blinks, and what is usually the red-tinted darkness of the inside of his eyelids is instead a slew of images, Lily and Mary and a little Hufflepuff girl with red-stained bows. He opens his eyes. The quill-water is in front of him, and McGonagall is telling off Henry Vance for trying to explode the liquid that once was his textbook, and Remus is flipping a page in his History book. He blinks again. This time it’s Snape, reeling back from a blow to his nose. His blood is on James’s knuckles. He opens his eyes and flexes his hand around his quill, like he’s sharpening a weapon.</p><p>“Two minutes, students! I expect fully liquefied objects or you’ll be seeing me in my office hours!”</p><p><em>Lily doesn’t know</em>, he thinks, and finally, he has something onto which he can latch this guilt, something for it to gnaw on, so it can leave the other parts of his brain alone. <em>Lily doesn’t know I attacked Snape.</em></p><p>The bell tolls the end of the lesson. James is up from his chair before the sound is finished ringing from building to building. He has the map, it’s sitting in his bag, folded up neatly between textbook and parchment.</p><p>This might be selfish, and it might be an attempt to seek absolution for something he doesn’t even regret. It’s probably a bad idea. But even bad ideas, as far as he’s concerned, are better than sitting around and doing nothing.</p><p>“So, Charms, is it?” Sirius swings an arm over James’s shoulder, which is a double-edged gesture, because it’s brotherly and familiar as much as it is a leash.<em> “</em>And then Remus is off to Arithmancy, and Prongs and Wormtail and I to Care of Magical Creatures? What do we fancy afterwards—cheeky trip to Honeydukes, maybe?”</p><p>“You lot go on,” James says, “I’ve just got something to take care of this afternoon.”</p><p>* * *</p><p>The map can’t trace into the Dungeons, so when he doesn’t see her dot anywhere else, he goes there. It’s dark and cold. There’s nothing to muffle the sound of his footsteps as they ring and bounce across the stone walls. For some reason, his heart is pounding.</p><p>One of the classrooms hosts a study group for Third Years. He hears the quiet scratching of quill on parchment, the soft murmurs of students working. <em>Not there</em>, he thinks.</p><p>Another holds a fifth-year Potions lesson, because it’s half two, and it’s Tuesday. James wonders briefly if Regulus Black is inside, and if he’s human in there, a normal student unencumbered by the Black Family name. James wonders if he ever smiles doing classwork, or maybe if he has a favorite topic. Sirius’s is Defense. He can’t imagine it’s a thing they share.</p><p>Regulus had stood nervously on the outskirts of the Great Hall on Sunday, like a small child in the middle of a dare he was too embarrassed not to take. It’s likely he knew what was happening, if he hadn’t been a part of it himself. James sometimes felt like he was his little brother, too, if not just by proxy, so to watch him throw himself away was a new sort of pain he wasn’t used to. He wanted to grab him by the hair and pull him into Gryffindor tower.</p><p>James shakes his head, because this train of thought is useless. He walks past the room. <em>Not there either.</em></p><p>The final room in this hallway is another Potions classroom, one with old books and stains on the walls. It’s overdue to be cleaned. People don’t go in it very often. <em>Here, </em>he thinks, <em>maybe here.</em></p><p>The door doesn’t creak when he opens it, which is surprising. It looks like the sort of door that would protest its own use. But it’s silent, and there’s a small mat on the floor to cover the stones from wayward ingredients, so his footfalls are quiet, too.</p><p>
  <em>Here.</em>
</p><p>James spots Lily the second he enters the room, and he makes his way to her without a second thought. It’s the first time he’s seen her since Sunday, and his heart does an odd sort of shuffling around his chest, like it’s looking for something to present, a token or a word or a gesture. Her hair is loose and she’s writing at a desk near the front of the room.</p><p>It would be a lie to say that he doesn’t relish in the steady rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes, the way she’s propping herself up on an elbow only out of laziness, not because she can’t muster the energy to stay upright. The sound of her inhale is a swansong. He’d never known before that <em>alive </em>could be a synonym for <em>beautiful.</em></p><p>“I need to talk to you about something,” he announces.</p><p>Lily jerks up and turns, because she’s only really become aware of his presence this second, and briefly James wonders if he should have been louder in his entrance for the sake of her comfort. He’s stuck on this thought for a moment but then concludes that that would have simply led to the same startling and jerking up, only earlier.</p><p>“You do?” She asks. He looks her in the face and thinks that she might be wondering at what point their relationship has progressed to the point where they have things to talk about, let alone things they<em> need</em> to talk about.</p><p>“Yes, I do.”</p><p>Silence. There’s a clawing at the back of James’s head that accompanies a sickly sort of pressure there, and he’s unable to identify which one is the fear and which one is the preparative defensiveness he knows he’s going to need.</p><p>“Well, out with it then, I guess.”</p><p>
  <em>Here goes nothing.</em>
</p><p>“I knocked Snape about the other night. Sunday night, that is. After everything.”</p><p>It’s quite funny to say <em>after everything</em> in regard to the incident that occurred Sunday dinner, because to some degree it implies that the <em>everything</em> in question is actually over. James rather feels like they’re still all sitting in the middle of it, whether they know it or not, and they’re surrounded by the <em>everything</em> on all sides, like a small island in a great body of water. But <em>after everything</em> is the only way he can categorize the time at which he punched Snape while also not having to say <em>after you were poisoned </em>out loud. So he sticks with it and doesn’t correct himself.</p><p>Lily looks at him with eyebrows that aren’t really raised, but just as well aren’t resting. “You did?”</p><p>“I did. It was pretty grim, actually. Think I might have broken his jaw. Probably would have kept going if the lads hadn’t shown up and stopped me.”</p><p>“You would have?”</p><p>“From what I remember, I had no intention of stopping.”</p><p>This honesty is painful, but as James keeps reminding himself, it’s necessary. He was honest with her that night in the Common Room, and he won’t stop now. Not when it matters.</p><p>“You might have killed him,” Lily remarks, and the fact that her volume and tone have stayed the same sends another pulse onto the pressure on his skull. <em>So that’s the fear, then</em>, James thinks.</p><p>“I might have.”</p><p>She hums at this. The sound of it lasts only half a second. It’s a final sort of <em>hm—</em>as opposed to the pensive-sounding <em>hmm—</em>and the way it stops suddenly instead of trailing off sends another throb to his cranium.</p><p>“...Are you going to say anything else?” He asks. His hand twitches in his pocket and he has to fight to keep it away from his hair, which all of a sudden feels lumpy and misshapen.</p><p>She blinks at him like the question doesn’t make sense. “What else do you want me to say? <em>Thank you? I hope you knocked some teeth out?”</em></p><p>“Er, no, actually—I was thinking more like <em>you neanderthal, what in Godric’s name were you thinking</em>, or something of the like.”</p><p>“Sorry, haven’t really got that one in me today.”</p><p>“You—<em>what?”</em></p><p>James watches with unveiled incredulity as she rolls her eyes and turns to face her desk. On it are two books and a roll of parchment upon which she’s just started writing. It occurs to him that she’s not even doing Potions work, and he almost lets himself ask why she’s even in the dungeons when she could be in the library, but he decides against it.</p><p>“Sorry, hang on a tick—you’re not going to yell at me?” James moves to stand in front of her desk and places his hands on it, which is a good reminder that he is a physical being in this moment, an active participant, and it’s really happening.</p><p>“No,” she dismisses without looking up, “not going to yell at you.”</p><p>“And you’re sure about this.”</p><p>“<em>Yes,</em> Potter. Honestly, I’m not even angry with you. So you can relax and go confess some other sin to someone else—I’ve got a report to write.”</p><p>The notion that something is eerily amiss with this situation settles in James’s brain. There is something backwards here, or maybe tilted upside-down, or taken apart and put back in mismatched order. It feels like someone’s tilted the world, and Lily’s managed to ground herself in this new terrain, but he’s left grabbing onto tables and chairs to keep from being thrown from his feet.</p><p>“Alright,” he begins slowly, “other than the obvious, is there something...wrong?”</p><p>Lily gets up from the desk and makes her way to a collection of books in the corner without a spare glance in his direction. He’s not sure if she needs another book to accompany her own small stack, or if maybe she needs a moment faced away from him to school her features. It’s not the first time he’s wished to be as close to her Marlene or Mary or even Remus, to not just provoke her ire, but to have been in her confidence long enough to know how best to make it go away.</p><p>“Nothing’s wrong, Potter.” she says as she bends down to dust off a hardcover. Her hands don’t tremble, but they move slowly, like the book might reach up and bite her.</p><p>“I’d have to disagree with you there, Evans. Something seems exceedingly wrong with how you’re taking this.”</p><p>At this, she turns, and her eyes are alight with something in the extended family of indignation. “What are you talking about?” She asks.</p><p>“You’re acting...well, I don’t know—<em>off</em>, somehow!”</p><p>“I just said I’m not angry with you!”</p><p>“Yes, I’m aware!”</p><p>“Right. You’re upset that I’m...<em>not angry with you?”</em></p><p>“It’s just that you <em>should be!”</em></p><p>Whatever response Lily is about to give him stutters and fizzes out in the space between her lips and teeth. She stares at him, unmoored, open in her surprise.</p><p>James heaves with leaden breath. His shoulders are tense.</p><p>Up until now, the two of them have been toeing the line between <em>discussion</em> and <em>altercation</em>, and with this, they tumble right off the tightrope and down into combat, hair whipping above them, fists curled and cocked back.</p><p>“What do you <em>mean,</em> I ‘should be’? Why on earth would you possibly want that?”</p><p>There is a pause, and in this pause, the distant sound of their bodies hitting the ground, landing from the tightrope, poised for the first blows. If they’re to look up, the sky and the rope are minuscule dots in the darkness of this new tension; if they don’t know how far they’ve fallen, they certainly know they’re much too deep to climb back up.</p><p>The fight begins quickly—though devoid of yelling or shouting or other such chaos.</p><p>Maybe their bodies have had enough of such affairs; maybe it’s a backward sort of comfort to know that this unpleasantness is one they can control, can temper, can mitigate with heaving breaths and clenching hands. That they are not screaming so that someone will hear them, but rather, hissing and seething so that nobody will.</p><p>In the darkness, James surges forward. He’s swinging blind.</p><p>The air crackles against an assertion that is unoffensive to him but apparently nonsensical to Lily: “I want that because I know you, Evans,” he murmurs, “and this isn’t <em>you</em>.”</p><p>The reaction? Immediate.</p><p>“You know me? <em>You</em> <em>know me?”</em> Lily throws the words back at him with barbs and knifepoints stitched to their heels. Unbeknownst to them both, each party has widened their stance, squared their shoulders in the empty classroom. “You don’t know anything about me! Up until a few weeks ago, Potter, we’d never even properly <em>spoken!”</em></p><p>“That’s bullshit and you know it,” he hisses, because she’s far too smart to think such a thing of him. <em>You don’t know anything about me</em>—as if that could be further from the truth.</p><p>“Oh, excuse me, I’m <em>so </em>sorry. You know perfectly well how best to interrupt my patrols and how many house points I dock for picking fights in the hallways.”</p><p>“That’s not fucking fair,” James seethes, “you’re not being fair. I’m not like that anymore. You’re bringing shit up that I haven’t done in ages.”</p><p>At some level, maybe deep down between molecules and atoms, Lily knows this. He’s sure that she does. But she doesn’t seem to remember it right now.</p><p>“<em>Ages!”</em> She cries. “Ages? <em>Months</em>, I’ll have you know!”</p><p>“What<em>ever</em> it is, don’t just—don’t just—” he scrambles for a moment, unsure of which offense he can accuse and weighing whether he even wants to, “don’t act like just because I was a prick, we didn’t know each other at all, alright?”</p><p>“Why—is that not something I <em>should </em>do? Is that not <em>like me?”</em></p><p>Clearly, he’s struck a nerve here, but there’s a part of him that thinks it’s a nerve that needed striking.</p><p>“No, it’s bloody well not.” James gestures toward her helplessly. <em>Look at you, </em>the motion says, <em>look—at—you.</em> “You’re not the type of person to reduce people to one thing. You’re not…you’re <em>Lily Evans.</em> You don’t give up on people, and you certainly don’t say <em>I hope you knocked some teeth out.</em>”</p><p>She scoffs. “A mistake, clearly, given where it’s landed me thus far.”</p><p>“So you’re just going to change for them, then. Sunday happens, and it’s the end for you? Is that it?”</p><p><em>“You,</em>” Lily cautions lowly, “do not get to tell me <em>how to react</em>. You do not get to tell me <em>what I’m like</em>.” Her words are jagged, and maybe her voice is riding the serrated edges, because it wobbles up and down and catches on its own discord. “I was poisoned. I was fucking <em>poisoned</em>. Someone tried to <em>kill me</em>, and they’re probably walking around this castle waiting for their next shot at it. You don’t get to <em>tell me</em> how to react.”</p><p>“Why are you acting like there’s no hope?” Whatever James expected from this conversation, it’s miles away from<em> this</em>.<em>“</em>Why are you suddenly so alright with everyone acting like enemies?”</p><p>“Please.” Lily rolls her eyes. “Do you honestly think my <em>attitude</em> will affect anything?”</p><p>“Yes! As a matter of fact, I do!”</p><p>She laughs. It’s cold and derisive. It sounds like someone else has taken over her voice. “You’re delusional, Potter.”</p><p>“But you’re letting them <em>win!”</em> James pleads. “If you let them change you like this, Lily, you’re <em>letting</em> <em>them</em> <em>win!”</em></p><p>“Well, maybe they’ve already won!”</p><p>Silence crowds the Common Room in the wake of her exclamation. James knows his eyes are wide, knows his mouth is open in shock, but he can’t seem to conjure the energy to rectify either.</p><p>
  <em>Is that what she thinks?</em>
</p><p>He takes in the way her shoulders drag down with each breath. He watches her fists clench and unclench like she’s grasping at the breeze. He knows at once that it is, without question, what she thinks; Since Sunday—at least—Lily thinks they’ve won, that there’s no point in fighting anymore. She’s newly seventeen, and the world has failed her this much.</p><p>“Evans, I…” He trails off, because, honestly, what can he say to that?</p><p>There’s nothing in his arsenal for this, not really. He’s not sure how to move forward. Sunday had opened him up to fears he’d never known before. He can’t even really pinpoint what brought him to see her, more than a restless feeling that made his skin feel tight, dragged too thin over bone and muscle. He’d just wanted to see her. Or, if he really digs at this thought, he’d just wanted to <em>do something</em>.</p><p>But this is about as far as he’s thought through this conversation, if not farther. He didn’t think she’d react like this; in fact, he thought the opposite. He thought she’d rage at him, maybe throw something, tell him what a child he is.</p><p>He didn’t expect her to be hopeless.</p><p>Last week, James would have scorned hopelessness, stood in its face and laughed, pushed it aside and sent it slithering into a sewer where it belonged. Sunday, though, it let itself into his home, took a seat at his table. Sunday he watched it shroud the Great Hall in darkness.</p><p><em>What can I do? </em>He wants to shake her, demand this of her. <em>Everyone’s</em><em> hurting, and I’m useless, and I need you to tell me what to do.</em></p><p>He’s stuck on this, and he’s staring at her, and she’s looking between him and the door like she wants to make a run for it—her report be damned.</p><p>“<em>Decided on pressing down the emotions and hoping they go away?” </em>Sirius said to him in lesson this morning. <em>“It’s worked well for me thus far.”</em></p><p>James remembers a few weeks back, when he’d seen her in the Common Room after her sister’s letter. She’d been so adamant not to let herself get angry, to wallow in her grief. He’d told her that he thought being angry made it real. This...well, this might not be the <em>same </em>thing, but there’s a thread between the two, something small, something she might not even know is there.</p><p>Of course, he could be wrong. He’s been wrong about her before, and he’s about ninety-nine percent certain he’s going to be wrong about her again. But there’s a chance.</p><p>It’s a split-second decision.</p><p><em>Fuck it all</em>, he thinks, <em>everything’s shot to Hell anyway</em><em>.</em></p><p>“Are you angry?” He asks.</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>“I said: <em>are you angry</em><em>.</em>” James takes a step forward, and she responsively takes one back, except that the backs of her heels knock into the stack of magical texts and knock a roll of parchment onto the floor. He plants his feet and raises his palms to show her he won’t advance any further, not until she asks him to.</p><p>“Am I <em>angry? </em>Potter, I <em>just</em> said—”</p><p>“No, no, not at <em>me</em>. I mean in general. Right now, in this moment. Are you angry?”</p><p>He’s asked so many questions of her, as of late, he realizes. How she feels, what she wants, what she’s doing. He wonders if she’s noticed. A part of him hopes she has, another part hopes she hasn’t. Like he isn’t already obvious enough in his hapless pursuit of her attention.</p><p>Lily’s eyebrows pull together, like she’s not sure if he’s joking. Given his history, he’ll admit, it’s not an unfair line of thinking.</p><p>“Are you joking?”</p><p>“No. Not joking.”</p><p>She stares for another beat. “I just got out of the Hospital Wing after some psychopaths <em>who are probably students</em> tried to murder me, and I’m expected to just carry on while they conduct some hippogriff-shit ‘investigation,’ and you’re asking me...if I’m angry.”</p><p>“Precisely.”</p><p>“You’re mad.”</p><p>“Alright, then,” he concedes, “I’m mad. But the question remains: are—you—angry?”</p><p>“You’re a twat.”</p><p>“We can go back and forth all day about whatever negative things I am, Evans.” He rolls his eyes and presses harder. The air feels warmer, thicker. If this goes on much longer, it might suffocate him. “But you still haven’t answered me.”</p><p>A pause. Her face is blooming with an angry flush, which he very much isn’t going to tell her still looks pretty, because that would be downright inappropriate (no matter how true it is). Her lips are pressed together. Behind them, he’s sure, she’s gritting her teeth to keep from letting out some sort of angry noise. She’s only partially successful.</p><p>In the milliseconds before she opens her mouth to speak, James contemplates whether or not he must have some sort of masochist complex to keep inviting dressings-down from her<em>—the love of his Hogwarts life</em>, as Sirius jokingly dubbed her over the summer<em>—</em>when he should be trying to figure out her favorite types of chocolate or flowers.</p><p>But that’s for another time.</p><p>“You just—<em>ugh!” </em>Lily throws her hands down in frustration, and with the motion comes a weathered book that bounces on the ground and coughs up a small cloud of dust on impact. “Fucking <em>fine, </em>Potter. You want to know if I’m angry? I’m fuming. I’m bloody livid. First of all, I’m sick and tired of pure-blood know-it-alls like <em>you—” </em>she gestures at him with one hand, the other busy pushing flyaway strands of hair from her eyes, “<em>—</em>storming in and interrogating me in my <em>two minutes of peace since I got discharged from the infirmary</em>, asking me ridiculous fucking questions, after a jolly group of psychopaths try to fucking <em>kill me</em>. Which isn’t even to touch on the fact that there’s some sort of disgusting pure-blood <em>death cult </em>roaming the halls, free to do whatever they like! And I’m just supposed to bloody deal with it!”</p><p>She pauses to heave a breath, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen the green of her eyes flash this bright. “God, it’s like everyone just expects me to go along with this treatment, like—like—” another small noise of indignation, this one rumbling up from her chest, “like I’m supposed to be<em> grateful</em> that just because I got introduced to magic by this school, I can be treated like I’m lesser than! Like my magic is an accident, or…or a <em>fluke!”</em></p><p>James opens his mouth to say something, probably agreeing with her or maybe just some nonsense encouragement, when she rounds on him and storms forward so that she’s crowded into his space. He freezes—both at the proximity and her expression.</p><p><em>Please</em>, he thinks desperately, <em>please don’t hex my balls off.</em></p><p>“And <em>you!”</em> She pokes him in the chest with a surprising amount of force. <em>Ow.</em> “Don’t you think that it’s alright for you to just waltz in here like you’re entitled to <em>my—bloody—time </em>and you know what’s best for me, like you can just convince me how to think because you’re Mister-Perfect-Fucking-Pure-Blood!”</p><p>James hardly thinks that’s what he’s doing, but he suspects that if he interrupts now, he might lose a limb. Lily continues.</p><p>“And my <em>parents—</em>God, my parents don’t even know anything <em>happened!</em> Can you even imagine how that feels, Potter? To have a near-death experience but not be able to tell your family about it because then you’d have to explain that there’s half the bloody Wizarding world that wants you dead because mum and dad aren’t magical?”</p><p>“No, I can’t,” he replies softly, because it’s true. He’s received no less than three letters from his parents since Sunday, each one interrogating him about his safety, two of them demanding they floo into Dumbledore’s office to deal with the situation themselves.</p><p>“No! No, you <em>fucking </em>can’t! So I’d very much appreciate it if you didn’t come in here and try and tell me how to feel!”</p><p>“Hang on,” he says, “honestly, that’s not—I didn’t mean that, alright? I just…”</p><p>“You just what?”</p><p>“I just think it would be a shame to lose what you’ve got because of a group of crazy extremists, is all. You’re...you’re too good a witch, and a person.”</p><p>Neither of them speak for a good few moments. Lily takes the opportunity to back up from right in front of him, and he feels the chill to be bereft of her presence. He knows they haven’t really reached a resolution about this—maybe they never will. But, <em>Merlin</em>, even if it's selfish, he's not sure he can stand to see her with the light gone in her eyes.</p><p>In the silence, the room cools. The sound of their breaths is the only thing left hanging in the air.</p><p>“Well,” she says, “normally this is the part where one of us storms off.”</p><p>James blinks. “Honestly, I think you’ve scared my legs into freezing.”</p><p>“You’re the one that baited me into a tirade. It’s your fault, really.”</p><p>“I guess it is, yeah. Feel any better?”</p><p>“I…” The way she’s looking at him, he might be a three-headed Billywig. “I maintain that you’re a twat.”</p><p>“I’ll take it,” he shrugs, “what are friends for, right?”</p><p>Lily freezes at this and scrutinizes him. Her gaze is narrow and scanning, and he suddenly thinks he knows what it might be like to be a list of Potions ingredients one batwing short. She folds her arms against her chest.</p><p>“We’re not friends, Potter.”</p><p>Another, longer pause.  A few thoughtful breaths.  James (in typical fashion) makes a snap decision: <em>well, why not</em>.</p><p>“And why shouldn’t that change?” He asks with an upward tilt of his lips that he tries fruitlessly to keep at bay. “’S not like you haven’t made worse friends in your time.”</p><p>It’s a gamble to play on a subject like Snape so quickly after everything that’s happened. He knows it is. But he’s James Potter, and he’s a risk-taker, and he’s always made his biggest gambles on her.</p><p>Lily stares at him for enough time to instill a horrible, sinking doubt in the pit of his stomach, and he wishes suddenly that he could take the words back, swallow them whole and rewind time to think of something different to say. ‘Friends’ is apparently a little bit too far of a leap, especially laden with that failure of an introduction to the prospect.</p><p>But then, to his delight, a bubble of shocked laughter fights its way past her lips. “I suppose that’s true,” she muses, “in the grand scheme of things, I guess you could say I’m in the market for friends.”</p><p>If you were to tell him in this moment that he was kicked out of Hogwarts and banned from magic, he still wouldn’t be able to keep the grin from his face.</p><p>“Funny you should say that—as it happens, so am I.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Are you sure this is a good idea?”</p><p>It’s about the fifth time Mary’s asked her this in as many minutes, and Lily’s beginning to think the other girl has some form of low-grade amnesia.</p><p>“<em>Yes,</em> Mary, I’m sure—now would you stop asking me that?”</p><p>They’re on their way to the seventh floor, because it’s Wednesday.</p><p>The fact of it being Wednesday is significant for a number of reasons. Wednesday means no patrol for Lily, as an executive decision from McGonagall has decreed that muggle-born prefects are to patrol only Mondays and Fridays, and with at least two other (non-muggle-born, but that remains subtext) students. Wednesday also means roast duck for dinner, which is a luxury that few ever want to miss, so the hallways are largely barren as Mary and Lily trod onward.</p><p>Wednesday also—most significantly—means that tonight is the night of the meeting held by Magda and Evie Abbott at the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. The tapestry which is hung on the seventh floor.</p><p>“I’m just saying, they seemed a bit odd.”</p><p>Lily sends Mary a flat look. The <em>them</em> refers to the Abbott girls, of whom Mary has been relentlessly skeptical. She’s been repeating this sort of sentiment since Lily told her this morning that she planned on attending the meeting. Despite these objections, though, here she is.</p><p>“Mary,” Lily sighs, “you told me yesterday that Clara O’Sullivan predicted that you’d grow webbed feet during Divination, and the professor gave her an Outstanding for it. You’re going to have to do worse to scare me off of them than <em>a bit odd</em>.”</p><p>“Touché. Also, my feet don’t <em>look</em> webbed to you, do they?”</p><p>“You have very normal feet.” Lily pulls out the small card she’s been carrying in her robes since Sunday night.<em>Wednesday, 8pm,</em> it says. “Now, come on—there’s another staircase this way.”</p><p>So the facts are this: it is Wednesday. Mary and Lily are on their way to the seventh floor. The tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy is hung on the seventh floor. The meeting is at the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. They’re on their way to the meeting.</p><p>They’re on their way to the meeting, and Lily has a lot on her mind, not the least of which is the frustrating face of Hercule Poirot.</p><p>Last night, due to her prickling anxiousness from (you guessed it) the upcoming meeting at the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy (on the seventh floor), Lily picked up an Agatha Christie novel and read the entire thing instead of sleeping. It was<em>Murder on the Orient Express</em>. She’d seen the film a few summers ago with Petunia—who hated it—on a rare day trip to London, so she already knew what happened. This knowledge made her strangely sad as she progressed through the novel. It was almost a betrayal to the fortitude of her imagination, like she was now confined within the understanding that Albert Finney was Hercule Poirot and Ingrid Bergmann was Greta, and because of this limitation, she was unable to construct their faces to her own personal criteria. She felt like she was exerting a gratuitous amount of mental energy trying to remind her brain that she was still capable of creating things, conjuring new marvels, envisioning beauty all of her own making.</p><p>Lily reasoned about halfway in that should she ever choose to see a film adaptation of a book ever again, it will either be after reading the book in question, or it will have to serve as the only form of the story with which she’ll interact until she’s too old to remember it and can, at that point, read the book with a free and liberated mind.</p><p>She finally fell asleep around three in the morning with the mystery solved once again. In many ways she felt like Poirot, suspicious of everyone, frustrated by the injustices around her. Everything felt twisted and no one was completely innocent.</p><p>“Would you <em>slow down?</em> Christ, Lily. We’re already early—do you want to arrive before them, or something?”</p><p>“Right, right. Sorry.”</p><p>Waking up this morning was nothing less than a struggle. Wednesday marked the first full day of classes she was expected to attend since the weekend, though McGonagall had made it distinctly clear at her discharge from the Hospital Wing that should she feel unsafe to attend any particular lesson, she was welcome to skip and ask for homework from someone else.</p><p>Part of her wanted to do it. God, to just lie in bed and not have to face the reality that there were people in this very castle who wanted her dead. But Mary had looked at her imploringly, and Marlene sat on her bed to brush her hair, and she knew—in that moment—that they were taking their cues from her. Mary would go to class if she went, and Marlene, in a bid for solidarity mixed with a shameless desire to skive off lessons, would probably stay too. She couldn’t do that to them.</p><p>So she went. Even with a pit settling in her stomach, she went.</p><p>The day passed quickly and (blessedly) without incident. This is partially due to the fact that she only had two N.E.W.T lessons, Ancient Runes and Alchemy, which were sparsely populated and devoid of any undesirable company. Another part of this came in the forms of Marlene, Alice, and Dorcas, who have apparently taken it upon themselves to form a vigilante protection squad for Mary and Lily until they see fit to disband. One of them walked her to each class, another picked her up, and so forth.</p><p>It was like everything was normal, except for this little cloud of apprehension that followed her around, too untenable for her to bat away, yet solid enough that she felt its presence everywhere.</p><p>Lily and Mary round the final corner. A small cluster of people are standing awkwardly near Barnabas.</p><p>“Oh, hey,” She sees Timothy Elkins leaning near the tapestry before she hears his call; he’s lounging along with a few other students she doesn’t know, “you came, too.”</p><p>“Seemed worthwhile,” Lily says, and Mary adds petulantly: “<em>seemed </em>being the operative word.”</p><p>The three Gryffindors chat for a few minutes as more students file into the hallway. Lily isn’t sure why they’re supposed to be here, because it’s just a hallway, as open and vulnerable as any other hallway in the castle. Not exactly ideal for a secret meeting.</p><p>She’s about to make known this concern when the sound of a door opening a meter away from her head startles her into silence.</p><p>“Ah,” says a voice, and Mary, Lily, and Timothy all turn to face the wall, where there is suddenly now a door. In it stands Evangeline Abbott, hands on her hips. “You’re here for the meeting. Perfect. Do come in.”</p><p>Mary imploringly at Lily looks one last time before they enter, to which Lily can only raise her shoulders and let them drop in an exaggerated shrug.</p><p>“What’s the worst that can happen?” She asks.</p><p>“Oh, I hate it when you say that.”</p><p>* * *</p><p>Whatever this room is, Lily’s never seen it in any copy of <em>Hogwarts: A History</em>. It looks like one of the secondary Defense classrooms, the ones the N.E.W.T students use when they practice proper dueling: elevated platform span ten meters in length and line the floors at the back like zebra stripes, and mirrors line the walls, tinted with ash from what looks like old, expired spellcasting.</p><p>She loves it immediately.</p><p>“Merlin’s tit,” Mary whistles, “where the hell has <em>this </em>been?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” Lily replies.</p><p>Students are beginning to gather around a small circle, in the center of which stand the Abbott twins. Magdalena’s holding her wand under her chin like an old-timey microphone.</p><p>“Glad you could all make it,” she announces, and her voice bounces off the walls. “Now, we’ve got a few things to tell you. The first thing is that you were very brave to respond to our note, and we both appreciate it.”</p><p>Evangeline, still silent, nods in agreement. The two girls share a look before Magdalena takes a breath to continue.</p><p>“The next is that this is not a run-of-the-mill Defense training. You all have just been attacked, and the people who did it are still out there, so teaching you shit like Hemlock does is a wand’s length shy of useless.”</p><p>Lily and Mary exchange a look. <em>A bit intense, but alright.</em></p><p>“If you want to do this—if you want to learn from us, you’ll be learning how to combat dark magic. Not the theory, nothing academic, just <em>magic</em>. You’ll learn how to throw off an <em>Imperius</em>. You’ll learn what to ask to make sure your friend isn’t under one. You’ll learn how to pull memories, to hide them, to keep them safe.</p><p>“This will be dangerous, and often painful. It will not be fun. If that sounds like too much, then you’re welcome to leave now, or not to return. No one will judge you for it. But if you do want to do this? Then starting next week, you need to come prepared to leave exhausted and a little bruised.”</p><p>Mary stiffens next to Lily, which she’s expecting, because this is just about the opposite of what she’d consider a good time. Lily, on the other hand, feels like her blood is humming.</p><p>“Next week,” begins Evangeline, “should you choose to come back, know that you’re not going to use your wands.”</p><p>A shocked murmur makes its way through the group like a ripple in a pond. Next to Lily, Mary scoffs. “So it’s to be fisticuffs, then?”</p><p>Evangeline’s lips shoot upward, apparently before she can think to stop them. “No, no,” she says, “nothing like that. It’ll be magic, yes—but just wandless. It’ll be magic based in your bodies.”</p><p>“I want you to think of the last time you were really, genuinely scared. Pull from it—<em>feel</em> it. Let it guide your magic.” Magdalena pauses and stares them down, each student she can see, like weeds she’s going to pull. “When bad things that happen to you, they sit in your body afterward. Sometimes even for the rest of your life. A lot of people don’t know that, that even if your mind forgets, your body doesn’t. It learns from it, tries to figure out how to protect itself—that’s true in muggles and magicfolk.</p><p>“But you all have magic inside of you, and this magic remembers those things, too, and it’s churning in your veins and waiting for the next threat. It’s evolution; plain and simple. Your body and your magic adapt to their surroundings. And right now? Right now, you are all under attack, and yeah, you’ve been through something grim, but it’s not going to be the last thing. Someone’s out there—this <em>Whatever His Name Is</em>—and he’s gathering people who hate muggle-borns, and he wants to see you all dead for no other reason than your parents don’t know a knut from a sickle.”</p><p>At this point, with some of the younger students quivering in visible fear and the older ones more or less looking like they want to burn holes into Magdalena with their eyes, Evangeline takes over. Her voice is just as authoritative, but there’s a more human edge to it, one that speaks to years and years of translating from <em>Magdalena </em>to <em>English</em>.</p><p>“The Wizarding World is incredible in many ways,” she begins, and Lily waits anxiously for the<em> but</em> like she hasn’t already experienced it firsthand, “but it’s also restrictive and unfair, just like any society run by a government of men.”</p><p>Many of the girls in the room chuckle at that, and a few boys squirm uncomfortably. Lily thinks she should introduce Evangeline to Marlene, see what kind of discussion could follow.</p><p>“Oh, fantastic,” mutters Mary, “so they’re just anarchists, then. That’s brilliant. Maybe if we burn the ministry down, no one will know who’s muggle-born and who’s not.”</p><p>Lily shushes her.</p><p>Evangeline presses on at the center of the room. “I want you all to think about how you learned of magic. It wasn’t from <em>wandwork</em>, it was from inside of you; before you even knew what a wand was. You were just <em>taught </em>that you need a wand and an incantation, but that doesn’t make it inherently true.”</p><p>“Hang on—so we’re expected to just listen to you two?” Says someone in the crowd, a girl. “What, we throw away everything we’ve learned just to get taught defense by two eighteen-year-olds who haven’t even graduated yet?”</p><p>“Nobody’s asking you to do that.” Magdalena’s voice sounds tired, final. She sounds like she’s seen death. “Listen. I don’t want to talk about me or my sister, because this isn’t about us, but—well, our upbringing was…different. It wasn’t a lot of childhood stuff, I guess. If you read the cards, or you know our family, you might know a bit about that.” She and Evangeline both shuffle around, faces pinching, but Magda speaks on.</p><p>“I learned how to throw a protection spell when I was thirteen. Our mum practiced Occlumency on Evie when she was nine. We’re expected to enter the Auror academy next year, maybe even this summer, and get taught by people whom our parents taught the Unforgivables.”</p><p>Maybe sensing her sister’s discomfort with this divulgence, Evangeline takes over once more, with a meaningful look into the small crowd. “This school is wonderful for so many reasons, and it can teach you so many things, but its purpose was never to teach you combat—not in the way that you need right now. Magda and I were raised on combat. We knew we’d be warriors from the moment we got our wands. I guess the thing we want to know about all of you is: is that what you want to be, too? A warrior?”</p><p>The question is open-ended, and it’s clearly the end of the meeting, so it does not receive any answer out loud from the muggle-born students, who instead make their way out of the room, chatting excitedly amongst themselves. Lily stays silent as well.</p><p>In her mind, though, she is unflinching, emphatic. Her response rings out in her head in a loop. It overpowers any other thought.</p><p><em>Yes</em>, she thinks, <em>yes, it is.</em></p><p>* * *</p><p>The ingredients in Lily’s Fire-Breathing Potion have to be kept in separate jars until the second she pours them into the cauldron, or else what is supposed to be a raging scarlet mixture will bubble into a horrible, misty grey.</p><p>Outside of the classroom, there is a silky mixture of whites and blues that sometimes blend together in various shades of grey. There are no warm tones to be found, only cool ones that meld from tree to tree. Lily isn’t sure why she expected to see any different on a Scottish March day.</p><p>It’s Thursday, which means one more day before the weekend. But it also means a two-hour Potions lab in the morning, to which she arrives fifteen minutes early, because the matter of seating arrangements has been plaguing her mind since she remembered last night that she’d have Potions today.</p><p>(Bereft of any more mystery novels, she was forced simply to try and sleep in spite of these thoughts, which proved incredibly difficult.)</p><p>She and Severus have been seat partners in Potions since first year. When the new school year began in September and with it her determination not to speak to him, she tried valiantly to exchange partners with someone, but Slughorn made such a show on the first day of how excited he was to have his two favorite students together for N.E.W.T level courses, all will to fight the placement deflated in her within the first lesson. She just resolved to get through the assignments and pay him no mind, proximity be damned.</p><p>But today is different, because today is Thursday, and Thursday is only four days after Sunday, and she’s a different person now. And different people need different seat partners.</p><p>Lily greets Professor Slughorn with a small smile when he walks in and commends her earliness—“and just a few days after such a dastardly incident! My, Miss Evans, you never cease to amaze!”—and as the clock continues to tick, her nerves rise. She hasn’t much of a plan for how she’s going to tell Severus to fuck off, past just giving him a two-finger salute and starting her potion.</p><p>The bell tolls. Students begin to file in. With baited breath and a shaky hand, Lily begins to separate her ingredients, taking out her Potions book like she would any other day.</p><p>Severus approaches her—<em>their—</em>desk two minutes late and Lily quietly wishes to evaporate.</p><p>She doesn’t wish to disappear, because she doesn’t want to be nothing, but she doesn’t want to be something, either, so evaporation seems the best alternative route. It’s a nebulous state between something and nothing. Maybe if she’s a fine mist, she can finally go to lessons in peace, and nobody will be able to touch her, because if they try, they’ll just pass their hands through the air with no hope of knowing where she is.</p><p>Lily doesn’t look up from her Potions book. She can feel Severus’s gaze on her, and his footsteps have stopped, so he must have arrived at the desk. She pleads silently for one last bid at evaporation. She feels like acid, so maybe that’s what she’ll become, an invisible spray that’s hissing and volatile and scalding to the touch.</p><p>Severus clears his throat. She wants to laugh at him, to say, <em>a bit rich for you to do that now, when two days ago, I couldn’t swallow without crying</em>.</p><p>He’s uncomfortable, and she won’t look up. He might have poisoned her. Two years ago, he showed her how to make flowers dance in the breeze when they weren’t even supposed to be in bloom, and the way the colors twirled dazzled her into speechlessness. It was March then, too. He’d put a daffodil in her hair.</p><p>“Lily,” he says, and his voice is choked, and it’s mocking her, because if he wanted to, he could take a breath and un-choke it. She hadn’t had such a choice on Sunday.</p><p>Two years ago, after the daffodil, he tried to put a lily in her hair, and she shoved him away with a laugh and called him a cliché. He said lilies were his favorite.</p><p>The Potions room is suddenly unbearable in its silence. She looks up at him finally, as if to break it, or at least to show him she isn’t victim to it. She won’t be a victim to anything he’s done—not again. His pupils are dilated, blown-out to add pitch-black shadow to dark iris. He looks like he’s never thought about flowers in his life.</p><p>“If you take one step closer to me,” she murmurs slowly, “I am going to scream, and then I am going to hex you so brilliantly that the entire Snape line will grow up with their legs on backwards.”</p><p>“Lily—”</p><p>“I said <em>one step,</em> Severus. I’m serious—I will blow up this cauldron in both of our faces before I let you get near me.”</p><p>“Lily, <em>please</em> let me—”</p><p>“Why, Snivellus,” comes a voice from behind Snape, and Lily looks up to see James Potter standing in front of her with a grin that should land him on the cover of <em>Witch Weekly</em>, “I do believe the lady just asked you to vacate.”</p><p>“Mind your own, Potter,” Snape hisses.</p><p>“Haven’t you heard?” James’s surprised expression sits <em>just</em> on the precipice of being theatrical. “I’ve been newly appointed head of the Disgusting Git Patrol. Sorry to say, mate, but you’re Public Enemy Number One.”</p><p>“I said <em>mind your own</em>.”</p><p>Around them, the Potions class is barely attempting to hide their interest. Lily sees Mary across the room sitting next to Elliana Kim, looking rapidly between James and Snape like she’s waiting for one of them to pounce on the other. Only Slughorn seems oblivious, too busy fretting over Peter’s mismatched herbs.</p><p>Lily has to admit, she’s a little bit intrigued as well. <em>From what I remember,</em> James had said, <em>I had no intention of stopping. </em>She wonders what his intentions are now.</p><p>But hesimply ignores Snape’s command with an air of casual superiority that, weeks ago, would probably have driven Lily to roll her eyes on reflex. Looking at him now, the way that his smile sits plastered and unmoving, the way that brows are <em>very much not furrowing thank you very much</em>, she can’t help but chortle mildly at the display. He turns toward her at the sound, and plaster cracks and crumbles to reveal a genuine grin underneath.</p><p>“Mademoiselle Evans,” he says, honey-smooth, “aren’t you going to tell him about our new seating arrangement?”</p><p>He gestures at the chair next to her and then back at himself. She sees for the first time that he’s carrying his Potions materials. She has no idea what this is supposed to mean, until she does, and it’s like her cauldron has, in fact, exploded, because heat hits her face like a splatter of the substance within it.</p><p>
  <em>He can’t possibly mean—there’s just no way—</em>
</p><p>Momentarily stunned, Lily just looks at him with wide eyes. <em>Sit together? During Potions?</em> Sure, they’d very recently (as in, yesterday) decided to become friends, but this...this seems very extreme. Sitting together. During Potions.</p><p>Severus seems to be thinking similarly. He’s opening and closing his mouth and whipping his head between the two of them. The two actions done in tandem is, admittedly, an impressive feat of facial coordination.</p><p>“You can’t be serious, Lily.” He looks at her beseechingly. “<em>Potter?</em> You can’t really mean to let him have my seat.”</p><p><em>Friends, </em>Lily reminds herself, <em>friends. They’re friends.</em></p><p>“I can, actually.”</p><p>The chain reaction of this statement happens as follows: across the room, Mary MacDonald drops a small vial in shock, which leads her to gasp so loudly that all heads in the room turn toward her. This includes Severus Snape, whose piercing gaze leaves Lily for the first time to inspect the commotion. Because of this, James Potter is able to slip by him with a small amount of shuffling and plop his books down next to her own with a grin, all done so quickly and quietly that, by the time Severus looks back at her—formerly <em>their—</em>desk, James is already dipping his quill in ink.</p><p>All because of three words. Well, to be precise, all because of <em>one </em>word in particular: <em>friends</em>.</p><p>Lily watches silently as James lifts his head from his quill to meet eyes with Snape.</p><p>“Close your mouth,” he says, “for Merlin’s sake. You’ll attract flies, or worse—you might accidentally speak.”</p><p>Possibly understanding that he has no argument to make, or even just still reeling from Lily’s rejection, Severus turns slowly and begins to walk away. She scans the room to see where he might end up, purely out of curiosity, and has to blink in surprise when she sees the only open seat left in the room.</p><p>
  <em>That is just not going to work.</em>
</p><p>“Potter!” She hisses. “What’s Sirius going to do without you? What, is he going to let <em>Snape</em> sit with him?”</p><p>“Don’t worry about that, Evans. We’ve contingency measures in place.”</p><p><em>“Contingency measures</em> <em>—</em> <em>?”</em></p><p>The sound of glass shattering makes Lily jump, and James’s hand shoots out to her elbow to steady her. He’s not even looking at her as he does it. She stares at his hand like it’s just crashed through the castle window from outer space.</p><p>“Oh—sorry.” Apparently James has turned back to face her, because he retracts his hand like he’s been burned, and maybe he has, because his face is near scarlet.</p><p>“Whatever,” she says breezily, “now—what on earth do you mean, <em>contingency measures?”</em></p><p>“I’d say you’re about to find out in about <em>three, two, one</em>...”</p><p>“Professor,” Sirius raises his hand with a resigned sigh, “I do believe I’ve just spilled Arnica syrup on my hand. Might I begin my trip to the Hospital Wing now, or shall we wait to place bets on what color my arm plans on turning?”</p><p>“Goodness, dear boy—of course! Make haste, make haste!”</p><p>Lily watches as Sirius (who is calm as a monk, it requires mentioning) gets up from his desk with a piece of cloth wrapped around his hand. He watches carefully until Professor Slughorn turns away to help another student, and then he sends Lily a genial wave and a grin. She blinks at him. The cloth covering his hand begins to slip as he waves, and it’s revealing patches of the skin underneath.</p><p>The skin underneath, which is… <em>completely fine.</em></p><p>“Agrippa’s sake,” Lily gapes, “he’s faking a <em>burn</em>?”</p><p>“Well, in all fairness,” James whispers as he turns again to look across the room at his best mate, “if he had to choose, I’m quite sure he’d take the real injury over sitting with Snape, too.”</p><p>“You lot are unbelievable.”</p><p>Sirius is across the room, so there’s no veritable way he’s heard her, but he sends her a wink and presses his finger to his lips—the universal sign for <em>shhh—</em>before turning slightly to look at James. Lily can’t see the look that James gives him, but Sirius gives a nod and a military salute before turning heel and marching out the door.</p><p>
  <em>What...just happened?</em>
</p><p>James turns to her with a pleasant look as if nothing strange has just transpired, and it’s completely normal for him to be her seat partner in Potions, smile wide as if looking at an old friend.</p><p>“So,” he says, “legs on <em>backwards,</em> you say?”</p><p>She wonders for a moment what friendship with James Potter means.  Maybe it means a new Potions partner.  Maybe it means finding out who attacked her, and using his guileless determination to do it.  Maybe it just means a laugh.</p><p>Laughter is what it means right now, at least, and it comes to her like a flower blooming in her chest. It feels more natural than it has all week.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>aaaand there is a mystery afoot! and a new club! so many developments, y'all!</p><p>I hope you enjoyed this chapter :) it was a MONSTER, lol. 18k!! I'm just so glad it's done and out there for all of you.</p><p>Please leave a comment, tell me what you think! I'd love to know!! And as always, follow me on Tumblr for more tomfoolery! @clare-with-no-i</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Way Here, The Way Forward</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>James and Sirius contemplate some compelling information they receive.  A Quidditch match draws the attention of many away from the previous week’s events.  A Gryffindor party yields fruitful conversation.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>PREVIOUSLY: blood prejudice permeates school grounds, culminating in an attack on muggle-born students during a Sunday dinner.  Mary begins dating Caradoc Dearborn, a seventh-year Ravenclaw over whom she's pined for years, but has yet to find the experience completely fulfilling.  Sirius and Marlene begin a casual fling.  James manages to secure a bid for friendship from his long-time crush, Lily Evans, who feels untethered and a bit confused by the current social climate.  Gryffindor is to advance to the Quidditch Cup Finals.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>There sandy seems the golden sky</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And golden seems the sandy plain.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No habitation meets the eye</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Unless in the horizon rim,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Some halfway up the limestone wall,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That spot of black is not a stain</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Or shadow, but a cavern hole,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Where someone used to climb and crawl</em>
</p><p>
  <em>To rest from his besetting fears.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I see the callus on his soul</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The disappearing last of him</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And of his race starvation slim,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh years ago - ten thousand years.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Robert Frost, <em>A Cave Dwelling</em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">September 1976: The Second Ice Age</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“For the love of Merlin, mate,” James Potter hears from the seat next to his own, “do try and unclench yourself. I think I just got a cramp from looking at you.”</p><p>“Leave it alone, Padfoot.”</p><p>He thinks he’s put enough venom behind the words to to accrue his desired response, but apparently not, because Sirius—the culprit—just scoffs.</p><p>“Oh, that’s fantastic.”</p><p>At this point James turns to send his best friend a withering look, so in retaliation, Sirius continues with his arms crossed over his chest: “You’re not allowed to be this testy at <em>least</em> until exams start.”</p><p>The comment rings true. It’s the first week of classes, for Merlin’s sake. It makes no sense for James to be so uptight, especially not when Quidditch tryouts haven’t even started and professors have only just begun assigning homework. There’s no reason for it.</p><p>Except there is.</p><p>There <em>is </em>a reason for it, and this reason has red hair, green eyes, a smattering of freckles across her nose, and is currently entering the Great Hall flanked on either side by her two best mates. James tries to stifle the discomfited shudder that runs through him.</p><p>“You’re downright twitching, Prongs.”</p><p>“No, I’m not.”</p><p>“You are. You’re...<em>twitch</em><em>y</em>.”</p><p>“I’m not.”</p><p>“Yes, you—<em>there!</em> Your leg’s just went all jumpy! Merlin, control yourself—you’ll knock over the pasties!”</p><p>It takes effort, but James manages to still his bouncing leg. He grits his teeth as he tries to think of a defense. What he comes up with: “…I’m tired.”</p><p>A brief stalemate ensues. This stalemate isn’t really even between himself and Sirius, so much as it’s between the part of his brain that wants to turn and look at Sirius’s face to gauge his reaction to his statement and the other part of his brain that can conjure exactly the type of disappointed look he knows he’s going to see.</p><p>Sirius speaks after a moment, tone mercilessly flat. “No, you’re not.”</p><p>“Yes, I am.”</p><p>“Prongs. You’re not bloody tired.”</p><p>“Oh, well, thank Merlin you said that—I’m cured!”</p><p>“Don’t be cute with me.”</p><p>“Admit it. You always think I’m cute.”</p><p>“Is this a come-on?” Sirius feigns a look of distress. “Prongs, you know you forfeited your shot with me when you tried to cut my hair in second year.”</p><p>“I was annoyed with you.”</p><p>“Whatever for?”</p><p>“…For telling me I wasn’t tired.”</p><p>“Oh, for <em>fuck’s </em>sake.”</p><p>James has not a few seconds to revel in this petty victory before Remus and Peter walk into view, and with this development, an axiom shift in Sirius’s demeanor.</p><p>Ever since school began again those few days ago, Sirius has been on-edge and skittish around Remus, shuffling around him awkwardly and being nothing short of prim. If you were to ask James—not that anyone <em>has—</em>he’d be the first to report that it’s damn near unbearable.</p><p>It bears a bit of explanation, which can be summarized rather aptly with one curt decree: for James Potter and Company,the summer before Sixth Year was the summer of tumult and upheaval.</p><p>This was the summer after Sirius Black’s greatest slight, one which nearly tore the fabric of the Marauders apart, and one over which he’d spend the entire period of holiday agonizing and bemoaning. James knows this, of course, because the summer before Sixth Year was also the summer—in accordance with its previously stated themes of <em>tumult </em>and <em>upheaval—</em>during which Walburga and Orion Black would push their eldest son the final step too far; the very step which sent him careening toward Potter Manor with clothes stuck to his body from the barreling English rain and bruises breaking open into cuts bleeding into burns, mottled across his body like paint thrown harshly across a canvas.</p><p>No matter James’s own anger (significant though it was), there would not be any question that Sirius was to live with him from that moment on. They’d always been brothers; but then, as he raised a shaky, grief-ridden hand to heal the lash-marks striping bright red anger across Sirius’s back, he knew there was no going back. He wouldn’t allow it. Sirius was his now—he would make it so.</p><p>And so it was. Sirius did not return to Grimmauld Place after that, and if James had anything to say about it, he never would again. He became a Potter in everything but name.</p><p>The following months, albeit calmer, were still rife with tension for the two boys. Even knocking their heads together in the vast comfort of Potter Manor, problems apparent plagued the Potter-Black Brain Trust at every turn: there was Lily, there was Moony, and there was the growing stench of war across the well-trodden earth of the magical world.</p><p>So they fell back upon their strengths: they planned. They plotted. They contemplated.</p><p>And then, after that, they did what they always did, regardless of the previous planning or plotting or contemplating: they acted.</p><p>This action can be summarized as such: James and Sirius learned that the path to redemption and marauder-hood was trickier than either could ever have anticipated, but eventually, through various bouts of emotional acrobatics and frantic last-ditch meetings in the Leaky Cauldron, they traversed it. Animosity melted back into cordiality into tentative, stiff friendship. Remus finally cracked a smile with only two weeks to spare before term.</p><p>But more on that later.</p><p>“Alright, Moony?” Sirius asks now, jumping up from his seat as if to pull out a chair for their friend. James watches the realization pass through his face that the set-up of the Gryffindor table disallows such courtesy—it is, after all, a long bench—and promptly plops himself back down with a general air of embarrassment.</p><p>Remus, now seated of his own independent ability, looks at him oddly. “Er. Yeah, mate. Fine. Cheers.”</p><p>“I’m alright, too, Padfoot—if you care.”</p><p>“Right, Wormy. Sorry. Good to hear, lad.”</p><p>James has to fight a groan from bursting through his closed mouth. This whole routine is getting rather tedious. He ushers them all to pay attention to him with a dismissive wave of hand, leaning forward reflexively to the now-complete Marauder group and opening his mouth to begin the diatribe he’s been holding back in anticipation of their full ranks arriving.</p><p>The three boys lean forward responsively. James stares into each of their eyes momentarily as though to assess their features—to gauge their commitment to the events about to follow.</p><p>You see, the Marauders have maintained a tradition of an inaugural first-week prank since Second Year, and although they’d been delayed slightly in this process (due to an aforementioned lack of summer-long communication), there is absolutely no way that James is going to allow a lapse in their record for something as trivial as <em>life-altering </em><em>interpersonal conflicts</em>.</p><p>“Have we got everything ready?” He whispers now. Remus nods first, then Sirius, then Peter. James continues: “Fantastic. And we all remember the incantation?”</p><p>“Yes!” says Peter, clearly pleased with himself. “It’s<em> fructus </em><em>cad</em>—”</p><p>“Not <em>now</em>, Pete! Merlin’s pants!”</p><p>“Sorry, Pads…”</p><p>The idea was born of—as many things are—acute boredom mixed with a splash of Marauder absurdity. It came about the first night back when, devoid of homework and hoping not to stumble into any awkward conversations, James suggested they get to work on their overdue first-week prank.</p><p>He thought of it after contemplating briefly the night’s previous events: the Sorting, Dumbledore’s speech, dinner, the new password…</p><p>Bells began to ring in his mind. <em>I’ve got it—it’s perfect</em><em>.</em></p><p>After that, it was all a matter of the <em>how </em>and the <em>what</em>, which came together rather quickly in his head after a moment of internal scheming—but this was Sixth Year, and they were the Marauders, and there was no way James was going to fall back into mediocrity with their entire reputation on the line.</p><p>The other boys took some convincing, though more so due to the complex nature of the prank than any glaring moral objections. They went back and forth about it for a good few hours after curfew, wands alight with <em>lumos </em>in the darkness as the hours passed by.</p><p><em>“</em> <em>You can’t be serious, Prongs.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Oh, I’m serious. Deadly so. In fact, Padfoot, you’re not Sirius anymore, you’re just Padfoot. That’s how serious I am.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Brill. S’pose that’s one affront I can make to the House of Black without showing up to the next family reunion in a tutu.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“This seems like a lot of work, though, Prongs…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Hogwash! This is nothing, Wormtail. We’re the bloody Marauders!”</em>
</p><p>And with that, because there was no way anyone would question such a statement, the preparation began.</p><p>Back in the present, the four boys watch on in excited trepidation as Dumbledore glides forward to the podium at the middle of the Head Table and clears his throat to give the evening’s inaugural speech.</p><p>“Alright, lads…” whispers James. <em>Here we go…</em></p><p>Albus Dumbledore is a brilliant wizard in many regards, but he is not an especially gifted speech-giver; although it’s customary for the Headmaster to give an address each night of the first week of lessons so as to help accustom the new students to the rules and regulations of the school, Dumbledore has cycled through the same five on repeat since First Year. Tonight, for instance, he’ll give his “may the school year prove as bountiful in its gifts as all of you” speech.</p><p>Well, he’d better, at least.</p><p>The Headmaster begins to speak.</p><p>“As you’ve made it through your first few days of term, my dear students, I ask that you—”</p><p><em>“</em> <em>Yes!”</em></p><p>
  <em>“This is it…”</em>
</p><p><em>“Wait for it, lads, wait for it</em>—<em>”</em></p><p>“—For nothing is more powerful, more life-altering, than the opportunity for enlightenment through learning. I beseech you all—”</p><p><em>“</em> <em>Any second now, I swear!”</em></p><p>“—And I wish you all a beginning of term that is challenging and fruitful—”</p><p><em>“</em> <em>NOW!”</em></p><p>Four voices hiss together in unison, and four wands, unseen under the Gryffindor table, wave in tandem.</p><p>
  <em>“FRUCTUS CADERE!”</em>
</p><p>And then…<em>chaos</em>.</p><p>A clap of thunder tears through Dumbledore’s rumbling baritone, sudden and arresting, and virtually every head in the Great Hall (barring, of course, the four Marauders) snaps up to look for its source.</p><p>The charmed ceiling, moments ago a calm, cloudless evening sky, is now filled with clouds that mesh into each other in a nebulous conglomerate of deep, stormy grey. Flickers of light pass from one to another like silent communication, lightning contained in the condensation, snapping brightly from left to right to center. James has only a moment to panic that <em>it might not be working </em>before the thought is proven untrue; at once, as though willed forth by his flash of nerves, purple, orange, and pink-tinted rain begins to fall in a fervent deluge.</p><p>Well, not <em>rain</em>, exactly.</p><p><em>“</em><em>Oh, my</em> <em>Merlin!” </em>Someone shrieks from across the room. “Is that <em>jelly?!”</em></p><p>In all fairness—Dumbledore <em>had </em>wished for a ‘fruitful’ beginning to the year.</p><p>Jellies and jams and the occasional preserves rain down upon the Hall in torrents, splattering upon tables and benches, tinting blonde hair purple and brown hair a pleasant clementine hue. James is affected no differently; in order to establish plausible deniability, of course, he and the lads decided it would be best not to preemptively charm themselves impervious to the gelatinous onslaught. He looks on at his mates in unabashed glee.</p><p>Remus—sly dog he is—cheekily grabs a slice of bread and holds it flat to receive an appropriate portion of raspberry jam, before leaning forward slightly to take a bite. His normally ashen blonde hair is alternating pink and purple between respective droplets.</p><p>“Success!” Sirius crows, and throws his arms up in the air, only to be immediately rewarded with a slap of strawberry preserves to the face. <em>“OW!”</em></p><p>Peter looks like he can’t decide whether to laugh or cry—relatively par for the course.</p><p>At the front of the room, teachers have their wands at the ready, most of them already shielded from further attack by some protection spell variant, save for Filch (who’s fuming) and Dumbledore (whose response to the situation has so far been to drag a finger across the podium and subsequently stick it in his mouth to taste).</p><p>As planned, before things can get <em>really, hopelessly </em>messy, the clouds dissipate, and with them the source of the jelly-storm. The room is awash in color and laughter in equal, bright measure.</p><p>James reaches forward to slap high-fives to the rest of the Marauders: “Mission accomplished, lads!”</p><p>But all revelry stops with the shrill cry that erupts from halfway down the Gryffindor table.</p><p>“What is <em>wrong </em>with you?!”</p><p>It causes all four boys to whip around, laughter dissipating into the thrum of disjointed conversations scattered throughout the Great Hall.</p><p>James turns to see a slightly more orange—that would be the peach marmalade—Lily Evans fuming in her seat, eyes bouncing back and forth between himself and Sirius.</p><p>“Why, Lily!” Sirius grins. “You’re looking absolutely <em>peachy</em>, if I do say so myself.”</p><p>“Go shag a Horned Serpent, Black,” she hisses.</p><p>“Ooh! Testy, I see!”</p><p>“Knock it off, Padfoot.” James shushes him and then turns to face Lily, who’s shaking off the calming hands of Mary and Marlene from her shoulders. “Evans, listen—”</p><p>“No, <em>you </em>listen!” She interrupts. “You absolutely disgust me, the lot of you! Don’t you see what a ridiculous mess you’ve made?!”</p><p>“Well, yes, but—”</p><p>“You <em>never</em> change! I swear, it’s the same <em>hippogriff shit </em>every year from you—especially <em>you</em>, Potter!”</p><p><em>“</em> <em>What?” </em></p><p>Lily’s reaction genuinely puzzles James. Around them, as if evidence to the goodness of this prank, students are laughing and wiping jellies and jams from their school robes; even at the front, Professor Dumbledore is clearing strawberry jam from his plate with a genial smile. “Evans, we’re all magicfolk—one wave of a wand and you’re sorted, remember?”</p><p>“That’s not the point, you cretin!” Lily stands up now, pushes two flat palms onto jelly-covered hardwood. “Just because—just because people <em>can </em>clean up your messes with magic, it doesn’t mean you <em>should</em> go around making them in the first place! It’s the principle!”</p><p>“The <em>principle? </em>Are you absolutely mad?” He gestures to the scene around them. “We make everyone laugh with a joke that’ll take all of five seconds to sort out, and you’re angry about the <em>principle?”</em></p><p>“Prongs,” Remus says lightly, “I think—”</p><p>“No, no.” James folds his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows toward Lily. “I want Evans to go on and explain this <em>principle</em> to me.”</p><p>Everything about this feels like the undoing of multiple months work. James can feel the disappointment crawling up his throat, stuffy and unsettled. His vision tunnels. He feels like a person outside of himself, untethered to his own body, and the more he tries to pull himself back in, the further he drifts. This isn’t how this is supposed to go.</p><p>To report this incident to someone else, James might say: he and the boys made it rain jelly in the Great Hall, and Evans got mad at him for it. That is—objectively—what’s happening here.</p><p>But what is also happening here is the unraveling of an entire summer’s discussions and reflections. Months of introspection and exposition and thinking-through.</p><p>Over the summer, James exposed his mind to the idea of Lily’s continued ire in small, bearable doses, as though his fear were a large block of ice left to sit out in the July heat, and each probing thought was another rivulet of water left to drip down onto the grass below.</p><p><em>What do I say if she gives me a detention? </em>He’d think, and another drop would fall. The block would shrink an infinitesimal amount.</p><p><em>What happens if I get into it with Snivellus again?</em> Another drip. <em>What do I say to her if we’re partnered for a lesson? </em>Drip.</p><p>Eventually, he worked through so many hypothetical scenarios detailing what he might say or do to convince her that he’s not the same person—same <em>bullying toerag—</em>he had been, he felt damn near invincible in preparation for the upcoming school year. He’d be different. He <em>was </em>different<em>. </em></p><p>Well, partially, at least. There were some things he wouldn’t change about himself, not even for her.</p><p>But this isn’t <em>wrong. </em>He hasn’t done anything <em>wrong. </em>Surrounding him isn’t pain or humiliation; it’s laughter. This isn’t anything he could have prepared for—what, was he supposed to just erase all the fun from himself, the joy? The parts of <em>James Potter </em>that ground him to the earth? To other people?</p><p>Fuck that.</p><p>He stares her in the face, hard, green meeting hazel. Both are searing.</p><p>“Go on, then,” he seethes, and he swears he can see the faintest flinch shuttle across her features, like a flash of lightning. “Explain it to me, Evans. Tell me what’s so terrible about what we’ve done.”</p><p>She doesn’t back down. “The <em>principle </em>is that you don’t care about anyone but yourselves! You never have!”</p><p>
  <em>You never have!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You’re just as bad as he is!</em>
</p><p>Something in him snaps.</p><p>“You know what I think?” <em>This is bad, James. Very, very bad. Stop </em><em>taking now</em><em>. </em>“I think you’ve gone spare because you finally realize we were right. Snape was never anything but a sick fucking bigot, and you can’t defend him anymore, so you’re finding things to be angry about to make yourself feel better because <em>you—were—wrong, </em>and everyone in our year—sod that, everyone in our <em>House </em>knows it.”</p><p><em>Fuck, fuck, fuck. </em> <em>Not good. Not good.</em></p><p>Silence.</p><p>The entire table seems to have stilled at his words. Lily is the only one whose expression shifts from shock, and the transition is ferociously quick; as though willed so with the utmost intention.</p><p>“You disgust me,” she snarls, and then steps over the bench and wrenches around to walk toward the door.</p><p>James watches in struck silence as she storms away. With a furtive wave of her wand mid-stride, she’s suddenly immaculately clean, devoid of any evidence of the very actions which have worked her up into this anger. It’s an impressive bout of nonverbal magic that James can’t help but think is at least partially born of spite.</p><p>He slumps down further into his seat. Suddenly, so many memories from the past three months feel like nothing more than a waste of his time, and embarrassment needles its way between the hot spikes of anger jolting through his veins.</p><p><em>Forget it</em>, he thinks bitterly, <em>it’s no use with her.</em></p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">March 1977: Present Day</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“You’re having me on. <em>Friends?”</em></p><p>“Merlin’s sake, Padfoot. I feel like I’m talking to a parrot.”</p><p>To set the scene: it’s eight-thirty on a bright Saturday morning, the owls are in the midst of dropping off the post to their respective owners scattered across the Great Hall, and Sirius Black is having a bit of trouble with something.</p><p>“I’m having a bit of trouble with something.”</p><p>James Potter—the recipient of this complaint—sighs and looks toward the ceiling of the Great Hall. Evidently there are no answers written in the rafters, because he blinks twice before looking back at Sirius, features pressed together like he’s hoping they’ll disappear into each other completely. Sirius can’t particularly blame him—they’ve been at this for about twenty minutes, and he’ll be the first to admit the conversation has been rather circular in nature.</p><p>“What, exactly, is the part you can’t grasp?”</p><p>“You’re <em>friends?”</em> Sirius demands—possibly for the third time, maybe the fourth. He hasn’t been keeping track.</p><p>As he’s done every other time Sirius has asked, James takes a nervous sip of his Pumpkin Juice and smacks his lips together. “...Tentatively.”</p><p><em>“</em> <em>Tentatively?”</em></p><p>“It means I’m seeking further confirmation on the matter.”</p><p>“I’m aware of what <em>tentative</em> means.”</p><p>“Fantastic,” says James breezily, “then there should be no further questions.”</p><p>“But…you’re <em>friends?”</em> Sirius can’t help but ask again, because really, it sounds ridiculous coming off his tongue no matter how many times he says it. “What, you just sat down and said, ‘right—I know we’ve hated each other for the better part of five years, but I think I rather like the way you brutally reject me, let’s grab a pint’?”</p><p>“For the last time, Padfoot, I’ve never hated her. <em>She </em>hated <em>me.</em> And I’d prefer not to rehash the whole <em>brutally</em><em> rejecting me</em> thing, if it’s all the same to you?”</p><p>“You can’t rewrite history, Prongs.”</p><p>“Trust that if I could, I’d write you to be less of a prick.”</p><p>Sirius rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, take a ticket and get in line. Therein you’ll find my entire family and about half of the Fifth Year class.”</p><p>“What did you do to the Fifth Years?”</p><p>“...May or may not have charmed a bludger to perform what can only be described as domestic terrorism during their flying lesson with Hooch a few weeks back.”</p><p>James frowns. “Why would you—”</p><p>“Simple mix-up of incantations. It was only supposed to go after my brother.”</p><p>At this, James only nods—<em>e</em><em>nough said.</em> Regulus is not a topic of idle conversation.</p><p>A mutual throat-clearing occurs, a palate cleanser. Sirius shuffles his food around until a small realization hits him. “Hang on a minute,” he says, “so <em>that’s </em>why she let you sit with her in Potions on Thursday? You said Mary sent you over there!”</p><p>“...Well.”</p><p>“Well <em>what</em>, you liar?”</p><p>“Mary <em>did </em>send me. With her eyes. Right before we walked in.”</p><p>“With her <em>eyes?”</em> Sirius scoffs. “And what, dare I ask, did <em>her eyes</em> say to you?”</p><p>“They said <em>go over and </em><em>get Snape away from our mutual friend, Lily Evans.”</em></p><p>“Oh, I’m sure they did. And then I assume they said <em>you’ve been recruited by Puddlemere </em>and <em>I’d quite like to have my hair set on fire.”</em></p><p>“Yes and thank goodness I knew by then that her eyes were joking, or else I might have actually decided to whip out my wand and <em>incendio</em>.”</p><p>Sirius rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands and groans. “You’re hopeless,” he laments. “Absolutely, positively hopeless.”</p><p>“Ah, but Padfoot,” James reasons, “you’re focusing too much on an accessory point. The main development here is that Lily Evans and I are—” he looks around now, as though this piece of information is highly classified and he’s waiting for various covert operatives to swoop in and record him, “—<em>friends</em>.”</p><p>No, Sirius has not forgotten this, and as evidence to the fact, he is actually in the middle of forming another incredulous <em>you’re...friends?</em> to say aloud when James cuts the process off entirely.</p><p>“Please don’t ask if we’re friends again.”</p><p>“What makes you think I was going to do that?”</p><p>He’s man enough to admit that he probably deserves the look he gets in response to this question.</p><p>They return to the slightly less interesting fare of the upcoming days’ events. Within this category include: James’s upcoming afternoon detention, Sirius’s last-ditch efforts to liberate his friend from said ill-timed afternoon detention, and the small matter that is…</p><p>“—The party of the <em>century!”</em></p><p>James rolls his eyes at this exclamation. “I don’t think we can honestly advertise it like that.”</p><p>“…The party of the <em>month!”</em></p><p>“There we go.”</p><p>Tonight, on the twenty-first of March, is James’s birthday party.</p><p>Well, technically, it’s James’s and Remus’s <em>joint</em> birthday party, but that—as to be explained momentarily—is more a technicality than anything.</p><p>Remus refused any sort of acknowledgement of his birthday those weeks ago on the tenth, as he always does; something about <em>mum already makes a big enough fuss as it is </em>and <em>I’d be uncomfortable if you got me anything</em>, and so on and so forth. Now, let it be known that James and Sirius made a point to flagrantly ignore this request and bombard him with sweet upon gift upon celebratory sounding of kazoo, but he was steadfast in his intention to be left without a party.</p><p>And thus, Operation: Joint Birthday Party was born.</p><p>Admittedly, this operation is a novel pursuit for the Marauders—usually, no matter the day of the week, it would be positively imperative that James have his birthday party on his actual birthday, the twenty-seventh. That is admittedly impossible this year.</p><p>“Speaking of your birthday—you convinced Moony to let us come out, or is he still being a git about it?”</p><p>James pulls off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “There’s definitely git behavior going on.”</p><p>“For the love of <em>Merlin!”</em></p><p>“I know, mate. I know.”</p><p>The four boys discovered in September that March’s full moon would be on the night of James’s birthday, when they were mapping out the school year’s Fulls with the almanac. Remus insisted that they let him take that one on his own, and, in the interest of shutting him up so they could move on to April, they told him they would.</p><p>They didn’t expect him to actually <em>remember </em>this, though.</p><p>A strategic flaw Sirius will be careful not to duplicate.</p><p>“Godric and Salazar,” he groans, “does he <em>actually </em>think we won’t come?”</p><p>“Looks that way.”</p><p>“For such a keen student, he can be awfully thick sometimes.”</p><p>In the interest of full transparency, Operation: Joint Birthday Party (or, <em>oh-juh-buh-puh,</em> as Sirius has taken to calling it) serves multiple purposes. It has the ostensible benefit of celebrating Remus’s birthday, which is eleven days overdue. However, more subtly—and this is the trick of it all, if he’s <em>really </em>to get into transparency—it forces a very convoluted solution to the just-as-convoluted problem of What To Do About The Full.</p><p>The issue exists as such: Remus does not want the boys to go with him on the March Full because of James’s birthday, which he supposes they will be celebrating on the very night. James and Sirius have rebutted that there’s no possible way they can have a birthday party without Remus there, because the Marauders are a four-person packaged deal, and his absence would raise too many questions that they don’t want to answer.</p><p>And thus? <em>O</em><em>h-juh-buh-puh.</em></p><p>The Marauders need to find a reason to celebrate James’s birthday early so as to avoid the offending questions, and—although Remus is ignorant to this fact at present—free them up to traipse about with him on the twenty-seventh. The solution they’ve come up with is to tell the general public that they’re having a joint birthday party for both Remus <em>and </em>James, which, despite Remus’s previous birthday party-related objections, is the only likely story they can come up with.</p><p>So now, thanks to the joint genius of the Potter-Black Brain Trust, not only have they secured a party for Remus’s birthday (technicality though it may be), they have also managed to secure a free night for the Full despite all obstacles facing them.</p><p>Being a Marauder is exhausting sometimes.</p><p>Sirius spends only a few more minutes lamenting the complicated nature of his existence before he notices another glaring obstacle in his life, this one more immediate.</p><p>“Where’s my bloody owl, then?” He demands. “I’ve not got the <em>Prophet!”</em></p><p><em>The Daily Prophet</em>, it turns out, is not really something to look forward to. It drops onto the Gryffindor table only a few minutes later, courtesy of Berty the stupendously geriatric owl, who was a gift from some uncle Sirius has never met.</p><p>Berty is dull grey in color and arguably blind in one eye, and he has about a thirty percent success rate of delivery if an item is larger than a small envelope. He has—not <em>once</em>, not <em>twice</em>, but <em>six times—</em>flown directly into the dormitory window at odd hours of the morning, and at this point, Sirius isn’t entirely sure that this uncle of his isn’t just getting petty revenge for Sirius’s various crimes against the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.</p><p>The owl is—in short—a complete nightmare.</p><p>Berty’s flying is so erratic that the <em>Prophet </em>lands at such a speed and with such poor placement as to catapult the contents of Sirius’s plate onto the faces of two fourth-years sitting a few feet to his left, who take turns yelping in fright before jointly sending him rather terrifying looks of adolescent rage.</p><p>“My apologies, girls,” he says to them with a honeyed tone, thinking quickly, “I don’t know if you know this, but I was actually—well, I was <em>banished</em> from my family last year, and unfortunately I’ve not got the funding for an owl with two functioning eyes...so, if you could find it within yourselves to forgive—”</p><p>“Oh, get bent,” one of them snaps, and then the two huff their way out of their seats and trot angrily toward the door.</p><p>Well. Never mind, then.</p><p>Sirius turns back toward James, who’s looking him straight in the face, unimpressed. “Is my sob story losing its touch?”</p><p>“You’re an arse.”</p><p>“Well, I suppose that answers <em>that </em>question.”</p><p>Only a bit put out, Sirius opens up his slightly-damp <em>Daily Prophet</em> and nearly swears aloud when he reads the first headline, fingers clenching at the sides of the paper and creating small indents and creases across passages of tiny print.</p><p>On the first page of the paper, the sentence stares back at him in bold, careful script.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>MUGGLE PARENTAGE REGISTRY BILL INTRODUCED TO MINISTRY; DAVENPORT TO MAKE STATEMENT BY END OF THE WEEK.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Sirius flickers his gaze back up to James; the boy is in the middle of what looks to be a game of How Much Toast Can I Fit In My Mouth Without Dying. For someone who was raised in such a pristine household, he’s got all of the manners of a Flobberworm.</p><p>“Have you seen this?” He demands, and thrusts the paper under James’s still-working jaw. The other boy makes some sort of confused noise around the mountain of food in his mouth before grabbing the paper in his own hands.</p><p>James’s eyes scan from left to right and back again a few times before he tosses the paper back at Sirius with a noise of disgust. He swallows his food and shakes his head, eyes sharp.</p><p>“Davenport ran on a muggle-born rights campaign, didn’t he?”</p><p>“He did.” <em>So much for that now</em>.</p><p>“Fucking nonsense,” James mutters, “he’s only been minister for, what, a year? Less? And he’s letting himself get bowled over by these maniacs.”</p><p>Sirius, the scion of a long legacy of<em> these maniacs</em>, nods grimly. “It’s the money, mate,” he sighs. “All they care about is the money.”</p><p>The words hang in the space between them for a moment. However bleak the sentiment may seem, both Sirius and James understand that it’s wishful thinking at best. It’s not really just about the money—it never has been, no matter how much easier, how much more palatable that would be. The money is secondary.</p><p>It’s about power and manipulation.</p><p>It’s about fear.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Only a few paces out of the Great Hall on their walk back to Gryffindor Tower, Sirius declares the need to make a stop on the way. James acquiesces, and they find themselves walking toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts tower.</p><p>As the two move onward through the halls, they begin chatting dully about things like the afternoon’s Slytherin-Ravenclaw Quidditch match and the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend. Sirius admits that he’s thinking of asking Marlene purely for the laugh when she inevitably rejects him in disgust, while James reveals that he hasn’t given the possibility of a date any thought at all.</p><p>“So,” he says suddenly in an obvious fit to divert attention from himself, “how <em>is</em> Marlene?”</p><p>“Please, Prongs,” Sirius replies, “at this point it would feel unfair of me to bookend this discussion about your lack of a sex life with a detailed account of mine.”</p><p>“Fucking—<em>Merlinssake, </em>Pads. I just meant, like, are you alright as <em>friends</em>?”</p><p>“Oh.” Sirius grins. “Brilliant. To be quite frank, I think all friendships might be improved by sex.”</p><p>James grimaces. “Let me be the first person to tell you how horrifically wrong that is. Also, <em>ew.</em> I can safely say I want out of this friendship if that’s going to be your take on things.”</p><p>“Fair enough.”</p><p>They arrive at Professor McGonagall’s office a short while later. Sirius knocks on her door and waits for her responding call, flagrantly ignoring the confused looks James is shooting at him from his side.</p><p>“Padfoot,” he says slowly, “what are you—”</p><p>But the voice of Professor McGonagall interrupts, loud and clear and ringing from inside her office, with a beckoning to enter. So he does just that.</p><p>“Hello, Professor,” he announces upon entry with James scrambling behind him, “I’ve come to argue the innocence of my compatriot here. He did nothing wrong, and this detention you’ve set for him today is unlawful.”</p><p>Both McGonagall and James stare at him for a good thirty seconds as the words echo in the small room. After a moment, McGonagall takes off her small set of spectacles and places them on her desk, as though they’re nothing more than a hindrance to her ability to peer at him owlishly.</p><p>“Mr. Black,” she says slowly, “are you referring to the detention I gave Mr. Potter for swearing?”</p><p>Sirius stands tall. “I am indeed, Professor.”</p><p>“…The instance of swearing in question, of course, which occurred during my class and in front of <em>me?”</em></p><p>“The very same.”</p><p>“I’m afraid you’re going to have a high road ahead of you to convince me that that did not happen, given the fact that I witnessed it with my own eyes and ears.”</p><p>Sirius turns now to James, who looks equal parts bewildered and amused, and gives his friend his most earnest impression of a contrite look. James returns it with a shrug. <em>What can you do, mate?</em></p><p>“Well,” Sirius sighs, “I tried.”</p><p>He then turns back to face McGonagall, who’s still peering at him, though there’s a glint of <em>something </em>behind her eyes, light and—dare he even think it—almost fond. She looks only a few degrees away from breaking into a smile.</p><p>“I’m terribly sorry about this, Professor,” he says, “but given that you won’t revoke James’s unjust detention and I need him for various things this afternoon, I have to take matters into my own hands here. Please know that I wish there were another way.”</p><p>“And what might that—”</p><p>But before she can finish the question, probably the same one floating through James’s head at the moment, Sirius takes a step back through the open door and cups his hands over his mouth.</p><p>“MERLIN’S SOGGY, UNSHAVED PRICK!” He bellows to the empty hallway.</p><p>Another pause. A defeated-sounding breath, near a sigh, from McGonagall.</p><p>James lets out a low whistle from inside the office. “Nice one, mate. Creative.”</p><p>Sauntering back into the room to join the two once more, Sirius grins, clapping his friend on the shoulder as he moves forward and throws himself offhandedly into one of the chairs in front of McGonagall’s desk. The owner of which is, at present, is staring at him with a look so scrupulously deadpan he thinks it might freeze that way without rapid intervention.</p><p>“I assume you’re aware that I must give you detention for that, Mr. Black.”</p><p>“<em>What?</em> You can’t possibly mean that. This is a terrible shock. Prongs, do prepare smelling salts if you have them—I think I may faint.”</p><p>She closes her book gets up from her desk, turning around briefly to place it onto the small bookshelf next to her window. Two rather thick volumes of <em>Timely Transfiguration, A-Z </em>shift to the side to give her room.</p><p>“And I assume, then,” she continues, “that you’re aware you’ll both be serving this detention with Mr. Filch.”</p><p>James makes a pained noise of protest behind him, which Sirius echoes, but none of this seems of any consequence to McGonagall, who’s standing rather haughtily behind her desk for someone who’s just laid waste to the lives of two accomplished young men.</p><p>“<em>Filch?</em> Professor, please, that is cruel and unusual.”</p><p>“It may be cruel, but in the case of you two, I’m not sure how it could possibly be seen as unusual.”</p><p>“He’ll have us cleaning dragon dung!”</p><p>“Mr. Black,” McGonagall says with raised eyebrows, “do you know of any dragons currently on Hogwarts grounds?”</p><p>“No, but rest assured—he’ll find some just for the purpose of making us clean dung!”</p><p>Now laden with two new books of cartoonishly long length, McGonagall turns forward, and any protests leaving Sirius’s or James’s lips trail off before they have time to fully form. It takes but a steely look to silence them both completely.</p><p>She moves to set the books down on her desk with a dull, thunderous <em>thud</em>. It is a subtle demarcation, but present nonetheless—the mood has shifted. Out of the corner of his eye, Sirius sees James take the seat next to him in front of her large, wooden desk.</p><p>“It should not escape either of your attentions that Hogwarts’s detention policy disallows students from having their wands for the duration,” She states with hard glances that flicker between both boys.</p><p>“It doesn’t,” they parrot back in unison.</p><p>She pauses for a moment, looking altogether quite grave. “I’d advise you both, then, to try and keep your time in detentions to a minimum from now on.”</p><p>Sirius leans forward. Something in her tone unsettles him. “What do you mean, Professor?”</p><p>Her lips purse tightly and she shakes her head, looking almost rueful. The silence continues for a moment before she breaks it. For the first time in Sirius’s young life, he notices signs of aging across her face: subtle wrinkles forming around her eyes, the pull of gravity around her mouth.</p><p>“Professor Dumbledore will be making his first statements on last week’s attack tomorrow evening, at supper.”McGonagall sits back down in her office chair, and for some reason, the gesture feels significant. “I’d hope you two would be so prudent as to pay attention.”</p><p>Sirius and James exchange a look. <em>What is that supposed to mean?</em></p><p>“Professor—” James starts, but she cuts him off.</p><p>“You’re expected at Mr. Filch’s office at quarter-past one,” she says, and if nothing else, Sirius knows a dismissal when he hears one. Call it the first lesson his mother ever taught him.</p><p>He sits for a moment, and a thousand questions shoot through his mind, one after another after another. <em>Does this mean they’ve found who did it? How did they do it? It must have been Snape, mustn’t it? Did those sick fucks get Regulus involved?</em></p><p>He chooses not to voice any of these out loud—when he looks over at James, the other boy seems to be going through the same inner turmoil.</p><p>“You may go,” McGonagall says softly, albeit unnecessarily.</p><p>The two boys exit without another word.</p><p>Tension follows them as they shut the door to her office and head drearily back to the dormitory, a few hours yet to pass until their joint afternoon detention.</p><p>Sirius hates tension. Tension is for the outside world, not for the valuable time he and James <em>should</em> be spending in pursuit of mischief or mayhem.</p><p>He endeavors at once to break it—or, at least, to try.</p><p>“Say, Prongs,” he muses, and James looks askance at him, expression understandably dubious. “If we’re going to be stuck in detention with Filch, don’t you think we should find away to make him just as miserable as we are?”</p><p>A grin grows slowly on James’s face. There’s something safe and warm in this knowledge that rests in the deepest parts of Sirius’s very being, that such a question posed to James would elicit this very response. It feels like family; the sensation is still new, still a bit hard to get used to.</p><p>“You know what, Padfoot? I do believe you’re onto something. It’s only fair that the three of us be equally miserable, if we’re going to be spending <em>all </em>that time together. It <em>would</em> be rather unfair for him to get off so easy.”</p><p>“Exactly what I was thinking. How do you feel about an <em>a cap</em><em>p</em><em>ella</em> showcase of our extensive repertoire of traditional Slavic music?”</p><p>“…Do we <em>have </em>an extensive repertoire of traditional Slavic music?”</p><p>“No, but we’ve got a few hours to get one.”</p><p>“I like the way you think.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“This is stupid.”</p><p>Lily’s announcement comes to the shock of approximately no one in the immediate vicinity—least of all Mary. In fact, instead of replying to the statement, she and the rest of the Gryffindor girls present simply nod and continue with the task at hand: picking out their outfits for the day’s Quidditch match.</p><p>“What do you think, Mary?” asks Marlene. She’s holding two knitted jumpers, one in each hand. “<em>Red</em> jumper with <em>gold </em>hat, or <em>gold </em>jumper with <em>red </em>hat?”</p><p>“Ooh, that’s a tough choice. I do think the red suits you better, though.”</p><p>“Hat or jumper?”</p><p>“Jumper—though the red hat looks quite good as well. Have you considered doing both reds? You <em>are </em>blonde, so it’s basically automatic gold.”</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>“What about this hat?” Mary turns to see Alice in an adorable golden beanie with a small puff on top that very closely resembles a snitch. “Too much?”</p><p>“Oh, not at <em>all—</em>you look darling!”</p><p>From where she’s sitting on her bed, already fully-dressed in a vest top and a vastly oversized Gryffindor cardigan that all but swallows her whole, Lily scowls. She’s been doing so for the past twenty minutes—it has not escaped Mary’s awareness.</p><p>“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she grumbles to no one.</p><p>Finally, deeming it now unavoidable, Mary turns toward the redhead in exasperation. “Are you done sulking over there, Ms. Evans?”</p><p>“I’m not <em>sulking</em>,” replies Lily, and this might be true, if only for the fact that she’s still in the process of descending into her sulk but has not yet reached the destination.</p><p>“Right. The little raincloud floating above your head is purely for decoration, then.”</p><p>“Oh, shut it—I’m just saying: it seems a bit quick to get back to normal, having a match today.” Lily gestures broadly with her arms and turns to grimace at each girl in a short sequence of plaintive curmudgeonry. “And past that, why are we even <em>going? </em>It’s the consolation match! We’re not even <em>playing!</em><em>”</em></p><p>“It’ll be fun,” says Alice.</p><p>“To cheer Dorcas on,” says Marlene.</p><p>“To revel in Slytherin misery,” says Mary.</p><p>“Ugh!” Lily throws herself back onto her bed with a <em>whoosh.</em> “I cannot be the only person with sense in this room!”</p><p>“When did we ever come to the conclusion that you’ve got any sense?”</p><p>“Up yours, McKinnon.”</p><p>“Only if you put it there, my beloved.”</p><p>Utterly dismal delivery notwithstanding, Mary can acknowledge that Lily’s got a point. It’s only been a week since the poisoning. Time itself seems to have slowed down in the wake; classes drag on for hours on end, the evenings spiral into night with a sluggish apathy Mary had yet to experience prior. It feels like it’s been three lifetimes since she got discharged from the Hospital Wing, yet at the same time, like no time has passed at all.</p><p>Every night since arriving back from the Wing, Mary’s been secretly charming her four-poster with a silencing spell, waiting with nerves that shoot up her spine for the inevitable nightmares to begin, and with them, the screams that rip through her throat and tear her subconscious mind in two. She’s taken to reading in bed—how <em>Lily </em>of her—or humming songs to herself, each a fruitless bid to keep them at bay.</p><p>Not <em>them, </em>actually. <em>It.</em></p><p>It’s the same thing every time.</p><p>It starts out in the Entrance Hall, empty and hollow, like a castle in ruin. She can feel herself progressing forward with the fluid motion of dreaming, not quite walking but gliding, ethereal, ephemeral. A guest in her own sleeping mind. She makes her way—somehow—to the doors of the Great Hall.</p><p>From there, it’s just Sunday evening played back on loop. But it’s only the dark parts, the silence after the laughter, the first clog in her throat that wouldn’t go away. It’s the first bit of blood she feels painting her tongue as she tries to speak. Like a perverse mirroring of actual events, she always wakes up right before dream-Mary falls unconscious, but those seconds last for hours, somehow, endless and looping and dragging. She always wakes up halfway through a scream.</p><p>Her first lucid thought is always relief, though; if she can scream, she can speak. She can breathe.</p><p>Sometimes the dream seems like it’s going to veer off in a different direction, maybe divert from the actual event to a happier version of reality, before careening back into the inevitable flashes of blood and bile and hurt. It’s as though Mary’s brain can’t decide what level of terror to bestow upon her until midway into the scene, at which point it leans in, full-throttle, to the most concentrated dosage it can conjure.</p><p>Mary shakes the images away quickly. As she shrugs on her jumper, she hears her mother’s voice: <em>shoulders back,</em> she would say, <em>chest proud. You’re nobody’s step-stool.</em></p><p>The MacDonalds are not those to dwell on things; not when they could be moving forward. Mary will be no different. Mary will spend today watching Quidditch, endearing herself to her new boyfriend. Whatever happens in her four-poster is of no matter until the sun sets.</p><p>“We’re going, Lily,” she insists. “End of story.”</p><p>* * *</p><p>It’s a beautiful day for Quidditch, cool and cloudless. The girls scamper down the Hogwarts grounds with the renewed energy of flowers in bloom, as though strengthened by the feeling of sun on their skin, the pollen swirling through the highland air. Mary takes in big, gulping breaths of the fresh breeze as she skips, closing her eyes briefly in contentment.</p><p>They arrive at the pitch a good twenty minutes before the start of the game. Standing at the closest entrance is Caradoc Dearborn, and Mary picks up her pace, excited for the opportunity to accompany him to a game.</p><p>And to see him, of course. That too.</p><p>She waves a big, excited wave as she approaches, and if he feels oddly about the fact that the girls are all dressed in glaring Gryffindor red for a non-Gryffindor match (which is, of course, proud Gryffindor tradition), he says nothing. This is one of those things she likes so much about him.</p><p>“Hello, love,” smiles Caradoc as he throws an arm over her shoulders. She grins and leans up to peck him on the lips, very conscious of her friends watching the exchange.</p><p>“Hi,” she says once they’ve pulled back. From behind them, Marlene—it must be Marlene, because no one else would be so flagrantly rude—makes an exaggerated gagging noise before whining: “can’t we at least take our seats before the love fest begins?”</p><p>Caradoc has much less experience with matters of the McKinnon variety. He nearly makes the amateur mistake of bothering to respond to her, before Mary and Lily jointly interrupt for damage control.</p><p>“Let’s go to the stands!” Mary effuses at the same time as Lily hisses, “<em>Marlene!”</em></p><p>And, with the situation summarily diffused, they do just that. Lily and Marlene opt to stay in the Gryffindor stands with the rest of the merry band of third-party spectators, while Mary gleefully lets herself be pulled toward the navy Ravenclaw stands. Caradoc’s hand feels warm in hers, though a little sweaty, but she’s not about to complain when she’s being <em>escorted </em>by her <em>boyfriend</em>.</p><p>Even the thought of it feels like a triumph.</p><p>Two of Caradoc’s seventh-year friends, Thomas McElroy and Louisa Simpson, greet her reservedly when they cross the threshold into the Ravenclaw stands. She sees them eye her attire skeptically and grips Caradoc’s hand a little tighter.</p><p>“You cold, love?” He asks. She shakes her head.</p><p>They arrive at their seats with ample time to spare, during which Caradoc exposits so lengthily and vivaciously about his most recent Alchemy project that she misses the starting whistle of the game, too caught up in her feverish devotion to nodding and smiling at the appropriate times. By the time she’s gathered enough information to make some sort of comment—hopefully, that is, an intelligent one—about Transmutation theory, the match is nearly thirty minutes in.</p><p>“Go Ravenclaw!” She cries, which feels indubitably odd, but Caradoc whoops and hollers his agreement. A Ravenclaw beater sends a bludger straight for a Slytherin chaser at that very moment, as if bolstered by her cry.</p><p>“’Atta boy!”</p><p>After about an hour of back-and-forth between the two teams filled with much the same sort of beating-and-chasing interaction, Mary makes a discovery about the nature of Quidditch observation:</p><p>Going to a Quidditch match that doesn’t involve one’s own House is much akin to attending a rousing performance of your distant cousin’s favorite play in which you have absolutely no interest. People are excited, some of whom you care about, but even despite whatever excitement may transpire, you just can’t buy into the enthusiasm that tries to feed its way through the audience.</p><p>Still, she tries, because this involves her boyfriend’s house—with the dual benefit of also remaining an opportunity to watch Slytherin get walloped (her allegiance to Dorcas, of course, notwithstanding). She remarks upon this to Caradoc, who simply shrugs.</p><p>“Inter-house conflicts don’t really concern me,” he says with an air of someone who believes himself completely and wholly above such matters and has no problem sharing this, “I like to remain neutral. I think of myself as…<em>Switzerland</em>.”</p><p>At this, he winks at her, like he’s thrown her a bone with this reference to an historical muggle conflict. She smiles quickly back at him in a sideways fashion, one that slides easily off her face the moment she turns her head.</p><p>“Oh—come <em>on! </em>That’s a foul!” Someone cries to her left, which alerts her to the fact that there are still Quidditch goings-on to be observed.</p><p>Slytherin scores, and across the way, the green stands erupt in brutish triumph. Mary watches from the corner of her eye as <em>Switzerland</em> lets out a very un-neutral-sounding groan of disappointment. Ravenclaw has dropped behind from its long stalemate of a tie with its opponent.</p><p>Those booing the most passionately, it would seem, are the students in the Gryffindor section, who are always hilariously eager to see Slytherin in dire straits. Mary can almost pick out Lily’s and Marlene’s voices amongst the cacophony.</p><p>“Would you <em>listen </em>to them?” Louisa asks Thomas from the row behind Mary and Caradoc. “Gods, it’s like they never grow up. <em>Lions—</em>more like barking dogs.”</p><p>“I know. Merlin’s sake, can’t they take a rest from their shit when it’s not even their match?”</p><p>All of the air feels bludgeoned out of Mary at once.</p><p>Suddenly, the decision to accompany Caradoc to the Ravenclaw stands feels like a childish mistake; she’s acutely aware of how her red and gold paraphernalia must stick out in the midst of so much blue and bronze, the lone bombastic Gryffindor in a sea of Ravenclaw poise. She’s halfway to opening her mouth to announce her departure when a dot of crimson-on-yellow catches her eye. Mary blinks twice to make sure she isn’t hallucinating.</p><p>In the row in front of her, glowering in sepulchral silence, is the taller Abbott twin, shoving through woe-begotten Ravenclaws as though trying to work out how many people she can injure with her elbows alone.</p><p>“…Magdalena?”</p><p>The girl jolts briefly before whipping around in search of the origin of the call. When she spots Mary, she relaxes slightly, although no traces of friendliness are inlaid in her features. Not altogether incredibly shocking—the only thing the two have in common is one secret meeting three days ago that Mary very pointedly did not take seriously. Nonetheless, Mary waves a tentative hand and sees Caradoc turn his head to watch the exchange with a friendly smile.</p><p>“Oh. Hullo, MacDonald.” Magdalena states plainly and then turns to nod at Caradoc. “Dearborn.”</p><p>“What are you doing in this section?”</p><p>“Boyfriend’s a Ravenclaw,” she replies before sizing both Mary and Caradoc up from top to bottom, pausing briefly where her arm is looped around his. “I see you’re similarly afflicted.”</p><p>For some reason, the idea that Magdalena Abbott has a boyfriend (let alone of the Ravenclaw variety) is nothing short of hilarious—to the point that Mary has to bite down on her bottom lip to keep from giggling. She manages a very appropriately bland: “great.”</p><p>“Still with Dirk Cresswell, Abbott?” asks Caradoc conversationally over the dull roar of inter-house outrage.</p><p>“Seems that way.” Her eyebrows draw together as she stares him down briefly. “I see you’re poaching from my House, are you?” And then, to Mary: “if he bothers you, let me know. I’ve beaten him in duels before—I’m not afraid to do it again.”</p><p>Caradoc only scoffs at the assertion, but it catches on something in Mary’s brain; something defensive, angry. This relationship is <em>hers </em>and <em>hers alone—</em>who is Magdalena Abbott, to stand there and make cracks about a relationship about which she knows nothing?</p><p><em>If he bothers you, let me know</em>.</p><p>She misses Caradoc’s easy retort, something like <em>you know last time was a fluke </em>or <em>let’s hear what Hemlock has to say about that duel, </em>but looking at his face as he says it—so blithe and unconcerned, so blasé—she can’t help but wish he would feel as angry as she does. Everything about him is calm and unbothered, and briefly, she can’t help but appreciate how correct he was at the beginning of the match: he’s<em> Switzerland.</em></p><p>Mary MacDonald is not Switzerland.</p><p>In fact, Mary MacDonald will never be Switzerland, has no plans to be Switzerland, and cannot fathom a universe in which she could be anything even remotely close to Switzerland.</p><p>By the time she works herself out of this internal tirade, Magdalena is long gone, and Caradoc is once again enthralled by all things Ravenclaw.</p><p>“Babe,” she says, “I think I’m going to go say hi to my friends for a bit—I totally forgot; I told them I’d spend at least a quarter of a match over at Gryffindor.”</p><p>He takes his eyes off the match briefly to send her an easy smile, eyes crinkling. “Of course—I’ll see you later, maybe after dinner?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>With that and a short kiss on the cheek, she’s off, and the feeling in her stomach is absolutely not disappointment.</p><p>* * *</p><p>She’s halfway to her friends (in fact, she can see them waving frantically in her direction) when she bumps into Antony Mulciber, who grabs her by the forearm before she can jostle her way out of reach.</p><p>“Well, if it isn’t Mudblood MacDonald,” he sneers, lip curling and everything.</p><p>“Oh, fuck right off and die,” is what comes out of Mary’s mouth before she can think to stop it, and she watches in morbid fascination as a flicker of surprise takes over his vile features.</p><p><em>Well, </em> <em>If he kills me now, at least there will be about three hundred witnesses.</em></p><p>But his eyes only flare. “Got quite a mouth on you—don’t remember you being so cheeky last year.”</p><p>Last year. <em>Last year.</em></p><p>Memories of a quiet Spring Tuesday evening run laps through her brain, the way the sun tilted across the planes of grass outside the castle and bounced from stone to stone in its walls. She sees three Slytherin boys with their wands aloft, Mulciber in front, lip curled as it is now. She sees flashes of light and can hear a shriek; <em>hers</em>, maybe, but too high in pitch—to pained, too weak. She sees stained glass and dots of rainbow across her vision, Madam Pomfrey’s voice a faraway song, a lullaby. She smells blood, tastes it.</p><p>“Fuck off and die,” she repeats now, a little hollowly, and pulls her arm out of his grip. His touch mars her jumper; she’ll burn it later. She makes her way across, finally, to the Gryffindor stands. Everything is as red as she feels.</p><p>When she finally reaches her friends’ seats, the questions are legion, and they attack her from every angle. The voices of three extremely panicked Gryffindor girls overtake any commentary on the match.</p><p>“Are you alright, Mary?”</p><p>“Did he say something to you?”</p><p>“Do you need to go to the Wing?”</p><p>“I saw him grab your arm, the fucking wanker—”</p><p>“Okay, <em>okay! </em>Enough!” Mary fumes, overwhelmed and embarrassed and running on far too much adrenaline for someone of her small build. “I’m going to go to the loo, if you’ll excuse me.” At the series of alarmed looks she receives, she continues heatedly: “Can you all just let me <em>be? </em>It’s not like I’m going to run behind a bush and vomit, for Merlin’s sake! I’m fine!”</p><p>So. Alright. Full disclosure, Mary vomits.</p><p>She makes it as far as the ground level of the pitch before ducking behind a series of towering wooden rafters. She can feel the bile bubbling in her throat, hot and acidic, and the force of the first retch doubles her over the second her body gives way to it. Her hands shake as they clutch her stomach, and her mind is a frantic, frenzied hedge maze of unwanted flashbacks. Knees wobble and shake as throat constricts; a desperate gulp for air becomes the dragging rest to a hiccuping measure of eighth-note convulsions, rising in a crescendo, piano to fortissimo. The image of the pitch flickers woozily to the Great Hall to the Hospital Wing to a dimly lit hallway and back, over and over, like a broken time-turner. Mulciber’s voice narrates sickly-sweet epithets that ring around her head like the wail of sirens. Mary vomits again.</p><p>“Gods,” she moans bitterly, “doesn’t this feel familiar.”</p><p>After a few minutes, it becomes apparent that there’s really nothing left in her stomach to bring up, so she’s reduced to a few dry heaves and hacking, dry coughs. She picks out three things around her on which to direct her focus: the feel of the wooden post against her hand; the breeze drifting through her jumper; the smell of sandalwood and broom polish permeating the grassy field.</p><p>Post, breeze, broom polish. One, two, three.</p><p>Mary wipes her mouth with the back of her hand once a minute passes without any further nauseous contractions. Someone back in the Gryffindor stands should have a bottle of water, hopefully—or at the very least, a cup into which she can conjure her own.</p><p>She’s examining whether any sick made it onto her clothes (blessedly not, it seems) when a voice calls out from behind her.</p><p>“Oi, MacDonald! Alright, love?”</p><p>Out of pure, animalistic instinct, Mary whips out her wand and turns around sharply, the first syllables of a curse forming on her lips. When she sees who it is that made the call, though, she relaxes. Some tension—not <em>all, </em>but <em>some—</em>drains from her shoulders.</p><p>“Whoa!” From a meter away, Sirius Black raises his hands in surrender at her, eyebrows shooting to his hairline. Behind him, James Potter is assessing the scene with a bemused expression.</p><p>
  <em>Do they ever do anything without each other?!</em>
</p><p>“Do you—don’t just go <em>sneaking up on people</em> like that!” Mary cries as latent waves of adrenaline flee her body like the tide receding from the shore.</p><p>“Oh, yes, clearly that’s my fault,” Sirius drawls, “horrible of me to do something so nefarious as loudly announce my presence from a distance.”</p><p>“Oh, shut up,” Mary snaps. She puts her wand back in her pocket and dusts off an imaginary bit of dust from her trousers. “You know what I meant.”</p><p>“Are you alright, though, Mary?” James calls (and makes the wise decision not to approach any further than his safe few meters’ distance). “Looked like you were getting sick.”</p><p>“I was doing nothing of the sort,” she sniffs, “I was just...checking my shoes.”</p><p>Sirius sends her a flat look. “You were checking your shoes.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“For what, exactly?”</p><p>Mary sags, exhausted and unable to come up with a sufficient lie. “…To see if I’d gotten any sick on them.”</p><p>Slowly and with care of which she hasn’t previously thought him capable, Sirius Black approaches her, tentatively putting an arm around her shoulders to guide her away from the post. The gesture is eerily reminiscent of how her father used to walk her to bed when she was sick. She restrains herself from commenting on the similarity, for it would be much, much too odd of a thing to say.</p><p>They approach James, who gives her a scanning look, like he’s reading about her in the lenses of his glasses. He takes her other side as they walk back toward the stairs.</p><p>“Just theoretically,” he begins with his face turned away from her, voice airy and pointedly aloof, “if someone said something to you, or—I don’t know—did something, I happen to know of four blokes who are exceedingly clever and talented at getting away with various schemes and/or revenge plots. Hypothetically, of course.”</p><p>“Handsome, too,” chimes in Sirius.</p><p>Something in her bristles at this second round of pureblood saviorism, this idea that she needs protecting by people of a stature so far elevated than her own. But past that, either above or below that level of conscious pride, she takes in the way the two boys make sure not to look in her direction, noses turned up and eyes staring straight ahead.</p><p>She can’t help it—she begins to laugh.</p><p>She’s still laughing by the time they get to the Gryffindor stands, whereupon her friends glom onto her with all the enthusiasm of people who hadn’t just seen her about ten minutes ago. She sees Marlene and Lily peer questioningly at the two boys accompanying her, who simply shrug and make their way over to their other two friends, stood a few rows back, each reading a book and paying the minimal amount of attention to the match afoot.</p><p>“Are you sure you’re alright, Mare?” Marlene asks as the girls untangle themselves and prepare to shout rambunctiously at Slytherin’s unending progress.</p><p>“Bit of a weird day,” Mary replies truthfully, “but I’ll be fine. Honest.”</p><p>The game continues on. Ravenclaw loses. Mary tries very hard to feel upset.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The current dilemma upon which Lily has chosen to hang her hat is that it’s eight p.m., she’s got an Arithmancy essay to write tomorrow, and she’s well on her way to getting pissed. This is—of course—a terrible problem.</p><p>It’s not that she’s been getting pissed against her will or anything. On the contrary, she was well enthusiastic to dip into the alarmingly large bowl of punch that appeared in the Common Room not two hours ago. The problem lies more in the fact that getting pissed (with an essay to write tomorrow) is absolutely not something she should be doing. It’s...well, it’s not really the behavior expected of a prefect.</p><p>Lily remarks upon this fact to Mary and Marlene, with whom she’s standing in a relatively quiet corner of the Common Room, and they both laugh as though she’s said something tremendously funny. The issue with this is that it’s not really that funny—more an ethical quandary with which Lily is currently grappling—but she gathers from their reactions that this would not be something worth clarifying. She takes another gulp of her punch instead.</p><p>“Merlin,” sighs Mary dreamily, “a brilliant thing this is, to send the entire House into chaos before curfew.” She throws her arm around Marlene’s shoulder with a wry grin. “I’m not usually one to get involved in such matters, but I’d encourage you to <em>really </em>give it your all next time you and Sirius have a little <em>rendezvous</em>. All in the name of our collective thanks, you know.”</p><p>With the hand unoccupied by her glass of firewhiskey, Marlene picks up Mary’s arm daintily and drops it off of her shoulder, sporting a small scowl. “Alright, I’m placing an official friend embargo upon discussing my <em>rendezvouses</em>, thanks very much.”</p><p>This is the first time Lily’s ever heard someone pluralize the word <em>rendezvous</em>.</p><p>Godric and Agrippa, she’s pissed.</p><p>Beside her, Mary’s laughing, although probably not at the <em>rendezvous </em>conundrum. She looks at Marlene smugly. “Whatever you say, Your Greatness.”</p><p>“That reminds me,” Lily says, “what is this party even <em>for?”</em></p><p>“Funny thing you should ask!” A voice cries from behind her.</p><p>Lily turns around to see Sirius Black swaying toward her. The smile slapped across his jaw is tilted a few degrees off-center. His tie sits limply around his neck, and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone to reveal his chest, sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up around his forearms. He’s what the Roman god Bacchus might have looked like, she muses, wrapped up in the form of a pretentious schoolboy.</p><p>Once he reaches the group of girls, Sirius elaborates: “This is James’s and Remus’s joint birthday party.” He gestures sweepingly to the room. “Can’t you tell?”</p><p><em>“</em> <em>What?”</em></p><p>The three girls look around the party as if for the first time. Around them, Lily sees students dancing and drinking—and in a corner, two are vomiting, but that will heed no more description than strictly necessary—in all manner of magical revelry. Three fifth-years stand to her left refilling their cups in a charmed waterfall of butterbeer which loops back onto itself before it ever hits the floor; to her left, Enora Hornsby and Benjy Fenwick are attempting to transfigure a small coffee table into a buffet fry-up (with limited success); to her right, two seventh-year girls are sitting atop a windowsill to blow charmed kisses to a small audience of fawning sixth- and seventh-year boys.</p><p>Essentially, though woe be it for her to acknowledge this truth, Lily sees nothing out of the ordinary in the fray—nothing, at least, that would indicate any sort of Potter-or-Lupin-related theme.</p><p>Then something catches her eye toward the direction of the ceiling.</p><p>Something painfully ornate. Something floating.</p><p>
  <em>What in the…</em>
</p><p>A charmed banner at least three feet wide and seven feet long drifts leisurely above the party like the wizard equivalent of a Times Square byline, with big, swooping cursive letters bobbing up and down in time with the music of the room—a <em>T-Rex </em>song that’s upbeat and punchy.</p><p><em>HAPPY BIRTHDAY JAMUS LUPITTER,</em> the banner reads.</p><p>Lily turns back to Sirius with eyebrows raised. “Jamus… <em>Lupitter.</em>”</p><p>“It’s a mix of—”</p><p>“I got it, Sirius, cheers.”</p><p>“Speaking of,” Mary says, “Where <em>are </em>those two?”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know,” sighs Sirius, “Remus is probably still cross with us for even having the party in the first place, and I imagine that James is most likely in the process of diving headfirst into a barrel of firewhiskey—which reminds me, I’ve got to go find myself a free barrel…”</p><p>He makes to turn and leave the girls in peace, but before he can, Marlene stops him in his tracks.</p><p>“Hang on a minute,” she says, “why are you doing a <em>joint </em>birthday? Especially for their seventeenth? Wasn’t Remus’s birthday, like, two weeks ago?”</p><p>Lily nods, Marlene’s suspicions transferring over to herself as though sent across an invisible wire. “And Potter’s birthday isn’t until the twenty-seventh.”</p><p>If she were to think about it with a clearer head, Lily might applaud the artful way Sirius misdirects all attention from his person when confronted with such an inquiry. It’s a level of conversational fluidity that must have been learned in some prep school or another.</p><p>“Interesting that you’d have such keen knowledge of James’s birthday, Miss Evans,” he says smoothly, shooting her a wink that feels salacious to even witness, let alone receive.</p><p>Lily halts, taken aback, and opens and closes her mouth at the remark.</p><p>“I—<em>what?”</em></p><p>The pointedness of his smirk grates on her for some reason. She doesn’t know what he knows, or what Potter’s told him about the fight-turned-burgeoning friendship they’ve fostered this past week, but she certainly doesn’t like this glint in his eye.</p><p>“Have you got something to say, Black?” She demands.</p><p>Sirius just takes a drink from his cup. “Me?” He says lightly after swallowing. “Of course not! I’ve rarely ever got anything to say—you know me, the strong, silent type.”</p><p>This, unshockingly, does nothing to abate her irritation.</p><p>As if prompted by her own annoyance, Mary and Marlene now look annoyed, and thus, suddenly and presumably without knowing how, Sirius has just summoned the ire of three teenage girls, each one looking more annoyed than the last.</p><p>Mary rounds on him with a level of suspicion one might reserve for a career fugitive. “I’m not sure how you did this, but you’ve absolutely ruined our vibe. Fix it.”</p><p><em>“</em><em>Me?</em> What could I possibly—”</p><p>“Oh, <em>I </em>know!” Marlene cries with absolutely no mind to Sirius’s personal defense. “We’ve got to play Walking Wombat!”</p><p>Lily and Mary grin at the suggestion, while Sirius just looks befuddled. “You’ve got to play…<em>what?”</em></p><p>“Walking Wombat,” Mary repeats.</p><p>“It’s a game,” Lily elaborates.</p><p>Sirius looks between them flatly, as if to say, <em>you two are really on the lash tonight </em><em>and not even in the fun way</em><em>. </em>“Congratulations on elucidating exactly nothing from that sentence, girls.”</p><p>It’s obvious to Lily that the most mature and reasonable route of reply is to stick her tongue out at him instead of trying to think of a response.</p><p>
  <em>Elucidate that, prick.</em>
</p><p>Walking Wombat is a drinking game of McKinnon origin that Lily, Mary, Alice, and Dorcas learned the July past when they all spent a week at Marlene’s house while her parents were away. The older McKinnon brothers, Benjamin, Oliver, and Noah (the inventors and proprietors of this game) took great care to ensure that each participant would be half-gone before the game even started, which, as they assured, would yield even more enjoyable results.</p><p>She remembers the day—well, parts of it, at least—with aching fondness.</p><p><em>“The rules are thus!” bellow</em><em>s</em> <em> Benjamin McKinnon as he </em> <em>stands</em> <em> on wobbly legs atop a Sitting Room chair. His brothers and sister all hoot and jeer, while the visiting girls simply share amused glances, passing around a bottle of Ogden’s Old between them. Benjamin </em> <em>sweeps</em> <em> his arms grandly and continue</em><em>s</em><em>.</em></p><p>
  <em>“First, we all get in a circle—a CIRCLE, Oliver, you fucking—” all participants shuffle (sheepishly, in the case of one Oliver McKinnon) into a messy oval around the boy, “—yes, good. Fantastic. Well done. Now, I want everyone to pass their wand to the person next to them.”</em>
</p><p><em>“What?!” Mary </em> <em>yelps</em> <em>.</em></p><p><em>From the right side, Marlene pat</em> <em>s</em> <em> her shoulder with a woozy smile. “Oh, go on, Mare. No harm.” </em></p><p><em>“</em><em>Yeah, Mare,” Benjamin grin</em><em>s</em><em>, “no harm. Just a bit of fun. Now, as you’re doing that—</em><em>Noah</em><em>, for fuck’s sake, it’s like you’re not even </em>trying—<em>I’ll take the liberty to explain the wonderful McKinnon invention of Walking Wombat, patent-pending.”</em></p><p>
  <em>He takes a long, steadying breath, arms held aloft in grandeur.</em>
</p><p><em>“</em> <em>Walking Wombat is a game of skill and mental fortitude. Each round, you’ll have a different person’s wand, and you’ll be tasked with </em> <em>conjuring the object we describe to you </em> <em>out of thin air. They’ll start easy, like a yellow quill or a squiggly fag, but then get progressively more difficult as the game goes on. Every person gets a shot at it, and if you fail, you drink—if you succeed, you tally it up. </em> <em>After five rounds of wand-passing and conjuring, the two people with the most tallies face-off with each others’ wands to conjure…”</em></p><p>
  <em>“A WALKING WOMBAT!” cry the three remaining McKinnon siblings in unanimous excitement, and the girls all jump in response.</em>
</p><p>It takes Lily a moment to realize that someone’s speaking to her.</p><p><em>“</em>—hard to find. Right, Lily?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Marlene’s looking at her strangely. She’s missed something. What has she missed?</p><p>“I <em>said</em>,” Marlene begins, “it’s always been hard to find enough people to play a really good game—but here we have just that: people!”</p><p>“Oh, right. Yeah, absolutely, the more the merrier.”</p><p>With this apparent co-sign from Lily, Marlene ushers all parties present over to sit in front of the fireplace, surrounding a small coffee table. Lily sits down as directed and watches in amusement as Marlene buzzes about the room, plucking sixth- and seventh-years and all but dragging them to the designated Walking Wombat zone. Around them, <em>T-Rex </em>has changed to <em>The Rolling Stones; </em>Mick Jagger laments his inability to get <em>satisfaction</em>.</p><p>It takes but a few minutes more to secure the necessary participants for the game of Walking Wombat, and as Marlene—in a very impressive impersonation of her brother Benjamin—decrees the rules with undeniable authority, Lily looks around at the fledgling participants gathered.</p><p>The usual suspects of Alice, Mary, and herself sit scattered between different newcomers, presumably to even out the odds. Next to Lily is Benjy Fenwick, and on her other side Peter Pettigrew and then Mary, followed by James Potter, Frank Longbottom, Timothy Elkins, Marlene, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Alice, and finally Enora Hornsby, who Lily’s assuming just snuck in quietly enough that no one’s thought to object.</p><p>Once Marlene finishes up her explanation and soundly denies the opportunity to answer any of the multiple questions thrown her way, Mary pipes up, expression thoughtful.</p><p>“Yellow quill, squiggly fag, tiny firework, singing book, silent frog, <em>then </em>walking wombat—right?”</p><p>“Right!” Marlene chirps brightly.</p><p>Across the circle, Sirius Black turns to Remus Lupin with a look of acute distress. “Remus, I think they’re trying to communicate with us.”</p><p>“Oh, be quiet, Black,” Lily sasses, “it’s the order of the objects we’ve got to conjure.”</p><p>“I bet at least four rounds go to Evans,” says James Potter from a few people down, sporting a genial grin that only adds to the aesthetic so artfully cultivated by a <em>Birthday Boy! </em>sash hanging loosely across his torso.</p><p>She looks sideways at him, unsure of where <em>that </em>came from, and equally unsure how to respond. Luckily, she doesn’t have to.</p><p>“Alright!” Marlene shouts, and all other chatter—or thought—ceases. “Wands to the person on your left! Let’s get <em>pissed!”</em></p><p>* * *</p><p>Winning two rounds of Walking Wombat out of six has left Lily with the distinct impression of her head being slightly detached from her body, possibly floating about the room and making idle conversation independent of her personal knowledge.</p><p><em>I really do need to ban firewhiskey from these parties, </em>she thinks.</p><p>The party has been carrying on around her in typical rambunctious fashion for two hours post-Walking Wombat, and finally, she needs a break. Mary has already disappeared somewhere; Marlene and Alice are sitting curled up on the couch together, laughing at a cartoon from Zonko’s.</p><p>She pushes her way to the portrait hole and shoves through, ignoring the indignant <em>“excuse me, young lady!” </em>that the Fat Lady eeks out at the disturbance. The evening has—unbeknownst to her—turned completely into night, and the darkness of the post-curfew castle catches her off-guard.</p><p><em>Whatever, </em>Lily thinks foggily and with substantial stubbornness, <em>I’m a sodding prefect. I’m allowed to be out </em><em>at night</em><em>.</em></p><p>With the alcohol hitting her system, everything around her looks a little bit like a Van Gogh painting, swirling and indistinct. Things that should be dots are curving lines; things that should be straight now tilt and bend and lean. She feels like she could run her hand through the air in front of her and watch the misty colors of the hallway transfer onto her hand like oil paint off a damp canvas. In the waning light of a few lit torches, the walkway drags on ceaselessly for miles, stone upon stone into the uncharted oblivion of the succeeding corridors.</p><p>A faint whistling interrupts her cloudy thoughts.</p><p>It takes just about all of her mental energy, but in the fog of her consciousness, Lily can make out a person sitting about ten meters in front of her, perched at the top of a small staircase.</p><p>“Alright, over there?” She calls to the figure, prompting it to turn around—and of course, of <em>course</em> it’s him.</p><p>James Potter cuts a relaxed figure against the staircase when she makes her way out of the portrait hole and into the corridor. His school robes are mildly disheveled; his wand looks almost dripping from a lazy grip.</p><p>“Ah, Evans!” He calls back. When she approaches, he’s smirking over an unlit cigarette. “You’re just in time—I’m pretending to smoke.”</p><p>“You’re—<em>what?”</em></p><p>James gestures to the cigarette lolling between his front teeth. “Pretending to smoke,” he repeats around it. “I’m trying out a new brand for myself: <em>James Potter, </em><em>pack-a-day smoker</em>.”</p><p>“Don’t you mean <em>pretend smoker?”</em></p><p>“Well, nobody has to know <em>that </em>part. Anyway—what do you think?”</p><p>Lily blinks. A fleeting thought passes through her brain that he can’t possibly be serious, but then again, this is James Potter, so that thought feels woefully optimistic.</p><p>“I think it’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”</p><p>“Oh. Well,” James frowns, extricating the offending object from his mouth, “bit pointless then. It was mostly to impress birds, anyway.”</p><p>This is one of those moments—frequent as they are, sharing a House with him—when Lily can’t decide if she’s witnessing a James Potter comedy bit or actively participating in one. This internal debate is usually followed by wondering which option is worse.</p><p>“Pity for the birds,” she says.</p><p>“Well, I guess we’ll never know.”</p><p>He shoots her a humored look before raising a cup of punch, which has evidently just replaced the cigarette as his contraband of choice. <em>Cheers, </em>the gesture says.</p><p><em>Cheers</em>, she gestures back. They take a drink in silence.</p><p>Once he swallows his hearty swig of punch, James wipes the back of a hand across his mouth to brush away the excess punch. On his wrist is an incredibly sparkly watch, one with gems encrusted in the face and a monogram on the side that’s too small to read. It reflects a flash of moonlight into Lily’s eyes.</p><p>One of the more subtle reasons for the long-standing rift between herself and James, Lily knows, is the sheer difference of their upbringings; their <em>worlds</em>. Her father went from steelworker to mechanic, her mother from secondaryschool student to wife. Her house in Cokeworth is modest with a small lawn and a tire swing. She did not grow up in with opulence.</p><p>James Potter is <em>opulence </em>incarnate, from his mannerisms to his possessions to his patterns of speech. One time, in first year, he put on his dress robes in the Common Room and pretended he’d just been elected Minister of Magic—which was funny, he insisted, because a previous <em>James </em>in the Potter lineage had been elected to the position twice.</p><p>She sets down her cup and gives him a scanning glance. Everything about him screams of wealth—even his eyes are gold.</p><p>“If you’re just going to sit here in silence,” he quips, “I might be tempted to start singing. I’ve recently learned a series of Bulgarian folk songs. Please don’t ask why.”</p><p>The comment—or, at least, the gist of it, Slavic folk music notwithstanding—makes her blink, resets her brain. Well, it forces her brain to <em>try</em> and reset, at the very minimum. He’s looking at her with an odd expression. She forces herself not to bounce her gaze around the empty hallway.</p><p><em>Well, </em>Lily muses, <em>out with it, then</em>.</p><p>“…I suppose I’m wondering why you wanted to be friends.”</p><p>A brief pause follows. She can hear her own breathing, the way it fills her lungs and leaves her mouth in deep, sinuous waves.</p><p>James set his cup down and sends her a scanning look, like he can’t decide if this statement is worth acknowledging. “Evans, have you ever met anyone who <em>hasn’t </em>wanted to be your friend?”</p><p>She pauses. “Er, there’s Carrow and Mulciber and Avery and the like, of course…”</p><p>“I meant <em>people</em>. <em>People</em>, Evans, not <em>sentient piles of mud.”</em></p><p>“Well, there’s that Diggory fellow from Hufflepuff.”</p><p>“Ah, good old Amos. I’m familiar.” James frowns as he takes a sip of his punch. “You think he doesn’t like you?”</p><p>“Well,” Lily says mildly, “I <em>thought </em>he did, last year. Turns out he just wanted to put his hand up my skirt.”</p><p>James’s expression turns dark, and maybe this is the alcohol, but a pleasant sort of thrill shakes through Lily’s body, like an evolutionary reaction to the idea of a boy looking so incensed on her behalf. Even if the boy in question is James Potter, and he’s just the type of bloke to take any perceived social injustice as a personal affront, irrespective of who’s involved.</p><p>She leans back onto the stone wall. It’s untouched and cool on her back. When she cuts her eyes upward, she sees that he’s staring down the marble staircase like something at its base has grievously offended him.</p><p>“Should have turned him into quill-water,” he mutters. She’s not entirely sure what that means, but it doesn’t really matter.</p><p>“Oh, don’t worry.” Lily masks her chuckle with a hearty drink from her cup. The memory of Amos’s unwanted advances is not the pinprick of annoyance it once was. “I hexed Diggory good for it.”</p><p>“Did you?”</p><p>“He couldn’t uncross his arms for five days. Looked terribly uncomfortable, really—Merlin knows how he put his robes on in the morning.”</p><p>“That was <em>you?”</em></p><p>“It was. Who did you think?”</p><p>“Nobody. I just thought he was feeling particularly thoughtful that week.” James shifts forward off of the railing, a grin forming on his face. “Interesting punishment choice, Evans.”</p><p>“It seemed fitting.”</p><p>“Fitting?”</p><p>“Mm-hm.”</p><p>“In what way?”</p><p>“Well, I figured he ought to practice keeping his hands to himself.”</p><p>James lets out a low whistle. The grin on his face is fully-formed now, and suddenly she’s reminded of that thing people say about yawning—that if you see someone else do it, you’re helpless but to do it yourself. So she does.</p><p>He appraises her. “You tell me something like that, and you’re sat here wondering why I wanted to be <em>friends?</em>”</p><p>The question jogs Lily’s thoughts, and she remembers at once that there’s a reason she’s talking to him outside the Common Room. There’s a purpose to this.</p><p>“Right,” she says, “you still haven’t answered that, you know.”</p><p>“Haven’t answered what?”</p><p>“Why you want to be <em>friends</em>, Potter. The question I asked you not three minutes ago.”</p><p>“Has to be at least four. Five, even—you know what they say about time flying, and all that.”</p><p>“Potter.”</p><p>“Fine, fine. If you <em>must </em>know, it’s because I’m in desperate need of new hexes to try out on slimy Hufflepuffs.”</p><p>
  <em>“Potter!”</em>
</p><p>“Alright—okay!<em>” </em>He laughs this time, not just a little bit incredulously, and raises his arms in obvious exasperation. “Merlin, Evans, I don’t <em>know!”</em></p><p>“You don’t <em>know?”</em></p><p>“Gods,” he huffs, “<em>n</em><em>o, </em>alright? Not everyone in the world has to have some sort of underlying motive for everything. Fuck’s sake.”</p><p>She’s said something to set him off—this much is immediately clear. As James talks, his face twists uncomfortably for a moment before schooling itself back into neutrality, some long-practiced mirage of innocence she’s sure every teacher in the school has seen. It’s barely a second of discrepancy from one expression of aloofness to another. The silence that crowds the hallway feels warmer and thicker, layered with something she can’t identify.</p><p>“Godric’s sword, Potter,” she chooses to mumble. “I didn’t know you were going to pitch a fit about it, did I?”</p><p>Something in him deflates at this, and he flexes his fingers around the cool evening shadows before sending a hand to card through his hair. He looks at her for a moment, carefully, as if searching for the answer to her question on her face. She raises her eyebrows at the scrutiny.</p><p>“Well?”</p><p>“Alright, sorry—that was unfair.”</p><p>Lily’s abruptly confronted with an inane urge to laugh, which she does her best to keep at bay. She hadn’t been expecting <em>sorry</em>, only an answer to her question, and the idea that apologizing for petty unfairnesses might become common practice between the two of them is a realm of possibility she’s never considered.</p><p>Then again, she’s never really considered him capable of real apologies in the first place.</p><p>Her thoughts are interrupted by James’s voice: “Did you know that Dumbledore’s going to talk about the attack tomorrow night?”</p><p>This is neither an answer to her question nor an expected contribution on his part. <em>“What?”</em></p><p>“Tomorrow night,” he repeats, “Dumbledore’s going to give his first speech about Sunday. A bit poetic, I guess. Exactly a week after.”</p><p>Trying to process this information with the alcohol sitting in her stomach feels like far too tall of an order for tonight, so instead of any response she’d like to give to such a statement, Lily simply responds, “oh.”</p><p>James goes on as if her one-word answer is totally normal. “I don’t even know what that means, really. Like, I don’t know if that means he’s found who did it, or someone confessed, or if they’ve given up on the whole thing. I don’t think they have, of course—but I just don’t <em>know</em>.”</p><p>This is a moment that requires careful word-choice, and for the first time in her young life, Lily finds the task monumentally difficult. “And…?”</p><p>“And I guess it just made me think about things. Big things, I mean. What matters. And I think, even with all the little shit from the past few years, and all the school bullshit, you and I are on the same side—so why shouldn’t we be friends?”</p><p>It takes her longer than it normally would to realize that the <em>it </em>in question isn’t Dumbledore’s speech; he means the attack. He’s already drawing battle lines in the sand, even when they’ve got a year left at Hogwarts.</p><p>Gods, but they’re different, the two of them.</p><p>Lily has long reconciled the fact that, barring any intervening social factors, she just <em>likes school</em>. She likes sitting in classrooms and solving Ancient Runes questions, the feel of parchment under a quill and the sound of the bell tower chiming the beginning of a lesson. It might be childish of her—she’s accepted that. But she can’t help but long to have someone explain the world to her, even if, should she choose to do so, she can see it clearly enough in her own plane of vision. Maybe she’s been hoping that someone will make more sense of it than she; maybe she’s hoping that what she sees isn’t right.</p><p>But she likes school, and she doesn’t think it’s <em>bullshit</em>, and there’s something in her that needs to tell him this.</p><p>“You’re not a soldier, James,” she murmurs.</p><p>Before he can respond, and even before she can elaborate her point to the best of her slightly diminished ability, a set of giggles echoes forth from the base of the staircase, and not a minute later, Mary emerges with Caradoc Dearborn at her side.</p><p>“Oh!” She exclaims at the sight of them, and Lily shuffles further down her wall, even though the two Gryffindors are a very socially acceptable distance apart. “Oh, sorry! Don’t mind us, we’re just heading in!”</p><p>“Hi, Evans,” Caradoc says mildly. “Potter.”</p><p>“Hi, Caradoc,” Lily replies, “enjoy the—”</p><p>“Hang on.” James interjects suddenly, standing up from his perch, and points at Caradoc. “He can’t go in.”</p><p>Lily and Mary both whip around to face him and ask in unison: <em>“What?”</em></p><p>“He’s a Ravenclaw. This is a Gryffindor party.”</p><p>“What, is someone in there allergic to Ravenclaws?” Caradoc asks drolly.</p><p>“Sirius, as a matter of fact—it’ll send him into a horrible sneezing fit. Best to avoid at all costs. What with the food present, and all that.”</p><p>“You’re joking.” Mary rolls her eyes before turning back to Caradoc. “He’s joking.”</p><p>“Er...no. Not joking. I’m afraid you’ll have to check your Ravenclaw baggage at the door, MacDonald.”</p><p>“What?” Mary drops her hand from Caradoc’s elbow and folds her arms over her chest. “James, Caradoc is my <em>boyfriend.”</em></p><p>“My condolences.”</p><p>“Potter!” Lily yelps. It’s her first contribution to the entire interaction, and honestly, she’d nearly forgotten that she has such ability. But he’s being so flagrantly rude, and the shift from the <em>James</em> from five minutes ago and the <em>James </em>she’s witnessing now is making her head spin. Plus, it’s only Caradoc Dearborn. Who the bloody hell cares?</p><p>She’s about to voice this question to the group when James turns toward her.</p><p>“Evans,” he says coolly, “trust me here; I’m abiding by the Second Law of Parties. I’m well within my rights.”</p><p>“The <em>Second</em>?” She asks, because of course she has to. “What—Merlin forbid—is the <em>First </em>Law of Parties?”</p><p>“I believe it allows me to cry if I want to<em>.</em>”</p><p>“James!” Mary protests once more.</p><p>For his own part, Caradoc hardly looks surprised at this turn of events. He just rolls his eyes as though this is business as usual with Gryffindors. “Classy as always, Potter.”</p><p>“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Dearborn. I’ve never claimed to be classy in my life.”</p><p>“Clearly.”</p><p>As if in order to plead his case, James turns his gaze to Mary, arms folding over each other at his chest.</p><p>“Sorry, MacDonald. This really is a ‘no-can-do.’ He insulted my Quidditch skills last year.”</p><p>“Oi—you <em>hexed </em>me!”</p><p>“I did?” James pulls his eyebrows together like he’s trying to conjure a memory of such an event. “Well, there must have been a reason for that.”</p><p>“Right,” scoffs Dearborn, “other than the reason that you’re a prick, of course.”</p><p>“See, Mary?” James asks. “Now he’s gone and called me a prick—how can I be expected to let him into my party?” He turns to Caradoc and takes on a polished affect of incredulity. “Mate, you cannot <em>possibly </em>have thought that was going to improve your chances.”</p><p>Before Mary—or even Lily—can object further, Caradoc simply sighs and plants a rather …<em>enthusiastic</em> kiss on his girlfriend’s lips, a clear begrudging admission of defeat. Lily quickly makes to shut her eyes, hoping against hope that the <em>“eep!” </em>she squeals in her head at the sight doesn’t accidentally make it past her lips.</p><p>When she opens them again, Caradoc is murmuring an annoyed-sounding goodbye, and with another brief, hostile glare toward James, he departs.</p><p>Mary is not so easily silenced. She whips toward James furiously, eyes ablaze. “You—<em>you</em>—I swear! <em>Where is the James from earlier? </em>I want him back!”</p><p>With this, she storms past them and toward the Fat Lady, at whom she roars a furious, <em>“CODSWALLOP!”</em> and stomps through the entrance. Lily’s halfway to asking the newest question to overtake her mind—<em>James from earlier?—</em>when she’s beaten to the punch.</p><p>“He made fun of Pete first year,” James says without preamble, looking past her and toward the retreating figure of the Ravenclaw boy. “Used to call him fat, say he wasn’t smart. Things like that.”</p><p>Lily peers up at him, gaze probing, and has to bite her tongue not to tell him that that’s exactly the type of thing he protested just moments ago: an underlying motive for his behavior.</p><p>Instead, she asks: “And you’re <em>still </em>cross with him over it?”</p><p>“Well,” James says, “he never apologized.”</p><p>There’s something about the way he says it, how it seems like the most obvious thing in the world coming from him, yet at the same time, like the entirety of this same world hinges upon it. He says it with a finality that is both deeply typical yet also—for some reason—surprising to her.</p><p>She takes in his face, the way his glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. The small freckle halfway to his left ear. In her mind, she sees Severus pulled up from his ankle, facing upside-down; and then it’s Bertram Aubrey’s head inflated to two times its size; and then it’s tripping jinxes sent to knock down every girl that exited the portrait hole.</p><p>Lily tilts her head. Her thoughts feel foggy still, but clear enough to discern that enough times has passed in silence that, if she were sober, she’d be embarrassed.</p><p>So she speaks again, and when she does, it is without malice, or judgement, or even any traces of bitterness, because she feels none of those things. She isn’t sure what she does feel—maybe resignation, maybe curiosity, maybe nothing at all—but it certainly isn’t any of those.</p><p>She’s to be his friend now, and friends are honest, especially when it’s important.</p><p>“You’ve hurt people in this castle before, too,” she says. “Have you ever apologized?”</p><p>His expression is in the middle of changing when she turns around and makes her way toward the Portrait Hole. She has an Arithmancy essay to write tomorrow, and as James mentioned, Dumbledore will be making his first speech on the attack. There’s much to be done.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this....chapter. help. if it's all uploaded, fantastic. if not, my internet continues to thwart me. </p><p>did anyone catch my little homages to TLAT throughout? my attempt at dialogue-based plot advancement and some Jules snappiness ;) but BaF style! If you haven't already, I'd 10000% recommend reading "The Life and Times" on fanfiction.net, a holy grail Jily fic!</p><p>hope you all enjoyed, and so sorry for the wait. what a crazy month this has been.  next chapter is VERY plot-heavy, and we'll finally be passing time a little quicker then these past few chapters! can't wait to get into it!</p><p>as always, feel free to come say hi to me on Tumblr, @clare-with-no-i ! I love talking to people there about Jily, HP, whatever! :) xx</p>
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